Jack had not. Ideally he would have waited until he and his prey were alone, but not tonight. Not with those sounds filling his head. Teeth grinding, his body vibrating with the need to maim, he jumped, landing upon the coach roof with light feet. The driver turned. One punch and the man slumped. A startled noise came from within. Jack gave them no more time. His claws tore through the roof as if it were paper. The woman inside screamed. Glimpses of her pale, bared thighs filtered through the red rage, but he had little care for her. No, it was the insect crawling away from her, desperate to flee the carriage.

Jack reached down and grabbed him, heedless of the blows the little bastard rained upon him. He hadn’t shifted. He wanted this scum to see who was going to end his life. Holding his prey secure, he leapt high, the weight in his hand making the launch awkward. His prey screamed, his flailing legs hitting the edge of the coach roof hard. A snap rang out, followed by another scream, this one of pain. Jack held fast, using the strength in his legs to jump again, a great bound that took him to the end of the lane. He dragged his catch along until they were deep in an alley where no soul would dare follow.

There he tossed his prey down. The demon scrambled, one limb twisted at an odd angle. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Bishop!” His skin was turning from human ivory to demonic grey, the stolen visage of a handsome lord melting into an ugly mug. Jack squashed down his chest with one booted foot.

“Just a taste,” Jack growled, his sight going hazy. “Isn’t that what you said?”

The demon’s wild eyes flared. “What? No! I never—”

Jack hauled him up, his claws sinking deep into the demon’s belly. “Just a taste of me! Isn’t that right, Mercer Dawn?”

Black blood trickled from Mercer’s lips. “I didn’t make it hurt. Not like the others. I could have.”

On a roar Jack raked his claws upward, gouging through the demon’s flesh, making the rotter convulse. “Do not speak!” Fangs elongated in his mouth, his body began to grow, muscles swelling, and leathery black wings once again sprang from his back.

The demon gaped with terror. “You’re no shifter. What in hell’s name are you?”

He towered now, a being over nine feet, and the surge of clean, hot power running through him was unfamiliar yet welcome. The demon dangled in his grip. One good swipe and he’d easily sever his prey’s spine. He craved that death. He would kill everyone who had ever touched him. “Revenge,” he growled.

Mercer cried now. Vile tears tinged with blood. “Please. Have mercy. I didn’t…” Yellow eyes stared up at him.

Golden-brown eyes filled his mind’s eye. Shining up at him as he bracketed her body to protect her. Jack paused. Bile coated his throat. Memories threatened. Mary Chase dancing in his arms. Taking a life. Hanging from that wall.

I liked you. When we first met. Mary. Hell, focus. His claws sank deeper into the demon.

“Please,” Mercer babbled, “I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.”

Anything? Jack’s list of wants had grown. He wanted his sense of control back. Damn it, he wanted his life back. He wanted.… Jack’s body trembled as the roar built up in his chest, pushing, choking, until it burst free.

Chapter Fifteen

Holly shivered and huddled closer to the rough stone walls that lined her cell. Across the way was a cell made of thick glass panels and a grid of gold bars. Inside sat a diminutive woman. Nothing by way of features to see but a pair of dark, glittering eyes that peered out from behind hanks of thick black hair. The woman had taken to bashing her head upon the bars as she recited a man’s name over and over until it became a mad song.

Holly looked away, not knowing who this man was, but rather fearing he’d be in for trouble should the woman escape, because the way she uttered his name was not kind. Those eyes were insane and made Holly feel as though her soul would be sucked away should she gaze upon them for too long.

Refusing to cry, she began to rest her head upon her raised knees, but stopped and flinched. Her face was on fire with pain, her jaw and cheek throbbing where the female guard had punched her. At the very least she had refrained from blackening Holly’s eyes.

“She needs to properly see,” her cohort had said, another woman with beautiful light-green eyes. Dead eyes. “Her hands are not to be harmed either.”

Oh, but her stomach? Her legs? They could be pummeled.

Clutching herself tighter, she rocked a little, trying to create some warmth. There were others down here. She could hear them moaning. And smell the stench of their uncollected waste.

At the sound of clattering keys, her heart leapt in terror. The lock of the far-off cellar door turned with a groan, and everyone went alarmingly silent. Footsteps rang out, a slow, horrific click, click. Holly dug her nails into her palms. She would not beg; she would not scream.

But the shadowy shape of a man grew closer. And then he was there before her. Watching. Waiting.

Holly lifted her head, for she knew it would only get worse if she did not acknowledge him. A shock jolted through her body. The man before her was Jack Talent. She’d heard many stories about Talent—that he was mad, soulless, a killer—but she hadn’t wanted to believe them. They stared at each other, and his eyes began to glow with a manic light.

“It is time to go to work, little girl.” Talent’s voice was not his usual one, but cold and flat.

“You’ll have to kill me, for I won’t help you.” Brave words, for even now her stomach revolted with a hard lurch that she barely kept down. She rather doubted she could withstand the torture that would inevitably come before said killing.

Talent’s teeth flashed in the light as a disjointed laugh broke from him. Then he shifted, growing and becoming a thing of nightmares, his jaw elongating, fur erupting over his skin, claws and fangs shining in the low light. A lycan. His words came out oddly muffled as he talked with that long snout. “Properly terrifying?”

Mutely she shook her head, not to disagree but in terror.

He laughed again. “Not to worry. I won’t hurt you.” He turned his misshapen head in the direction of the other cells. “I’ll just let you watch as I tear them apart. Perhaps I’ll start with the proud Lord Darby.” He gestured to the shifter who had been brought in the morning after she’d arrived in this hell. The poor golden-haired fellow strained against the iron chains punched through his shoulders and looped around his body. Embedded deep in the stone wall, those chains held fast no matter how much he struggled. Blood poured through the shifter’s open wounds, and Talent leaned down to lap one rivulet up with his tongue as the shifter roared behind the gag in his mouth.

This time she could not restrain herself. Holly turned and retched, the acrid burn of vomit scorching her throat and nostrils as Talent laughed. “Ever had a taste of shifter blood? No? It is quite delicious. And potent.” He paused, his brow furrowing as if he pondered the effect. Then his frown grew. “But not as powerful as this, I think.”

In his hand he held a glass vial filled with blood. It ought to have repulsed her, but there was a glow to the deep-ruby liquid, a richness of color that held her in thrall until she blinked hard. Talent turned to address one of the thugs in the room with them. “Help yourself to Darby, and then take his place quickly.” He laughed. “We shall need to keep the SOS distracted for a while yet. Then you may do what you want to the agents guarding him.

“As for you, Miss Evernight,” he said to her. “We’ll get you cleaned up and ready to work.”

Holly’s limbs trembled as she rose. God forgive her, because she was going to do as she was told.

Spying on a supernatural was a tricky business. In general, most could not see a GIM in spirit form. Save for the lycans. The wolf in them could see spirits. However, strengths and weaknesses were as varied as people. Mary knew of some lycans so out of touch with their inner wolf that her spirit could dance na**d in front of them and they wouldn’t bat an eye. Demons, on the whole, were too obsessed with the flesh to see the spirit, and elementals were too human, which meant they didn’t trust what was not corporeal. Then there were the shifters. Despite what many believed, shifters were not animals hiding in human skins. True, they might shift into an animal, but that was through force of will. It was not setting an animal free, as lycans did. No, shifters were more demon than anything else. Thus trailing a shifter ought to be an easy business. But Jack Talent was an unknown threat. Because getting caught by him would not only be disastrous and humiliating; if certain facts were to be believed, it could get her killed.

The very idea of Talent being the Bishop made her ill to the core. Was he a killer? Who was it they’d chased earlier? It occurred to Mary, rather belatedly, that Talent had been alone with the strange man for enough time to converse, and yet he hadn’t made mention of any revelations. Perhaps Talent was working with this man.

Mary did not know what to think. She had, however, seen the worry in Talent’s dark-green eyes when he had realized that she’d be working alongside him. Just a flash of it before he’d smothered it away. And Mary now wondered, was it because he had intended to sabotage the case from the inside? Had he taken Holly because she’d discovered something about the clockwork hearts?

Damn it, but this was Jack Talent, the man utterly loyal to Ian Ranulf, the man who had risked his life to help Poppy and Winston Lane. Talent lived and breathed the SOS. Since he’d joined up, no other regulator had solved more cases than he. She ought to know, as she’d been the one tasked to record every regulator victory.

Divergent thoughts muddled Mary’s mind as she trudged back to her flat. Once there, she hid her body within the secret compartment specifically designed for the task, and went on the hunt.

Outside, Mary spread her spirit wide, losing all sense of shape. In spirit form she could be vast. It was a strange experience, to let go of one’s physical form. Even as a spirit, one tended to need that connection to life. Letting go took great faith in the knowledge that, no matter what the form, the essence of oneself was not in the physical but in the spiritual. And so Mary dissipated, melding with the fog that hung in the night air. Odd as it felt, odder still was the lingering feeling of having a heart, having lungs. Those organs she’d left behind, and yet it seemed as though her breath came on fast and her heart whirred within her breast. Mind was not matter, but will. And it did not easily give up the sensation of being flesh.

In the blue of twilight, the city’s souls were a map of stars laid out over London, so profuse that it took effort to sort out each individual. Oh, but it was the worst sort of invasion, looking at the light of a person’s soul. As a GIM, Mary could see every soul’s light, but she’d been trained to turn that power off until necessary, for it was too personal a thing. Necessity trumped manners tonight. It was the light of Talent’s soul that Mary sought. Having connected to him before, she need only relax and let the link join them once more. Talent, she thought. Jack.

A recognizable vibration brushed up against her, the touch of his soul to hers. Far below, a gleaming, silver-blue light emanated from his form. Gone was the sickly mustard-yellow of pain that had tainted it when she’d tracked him down years ago. His physical pain might be gone, but his inner turmoil was strong, a brilliant flame fragmenting like sunlight hitting the edge of a diamond.

Like a bird of prey, she swooped down low, following the glow of his soul toward Portman Square, then onto Baker Street. Once there she stopped and gazed up at the town house in which Talent’s soul lay. The house was quite lovely, a stately Georgian, with a front colonnade, black brick facade, and cream trim. Almost all the windows were dark, save for a lonely light coming from the third floor.

Mary drifted close to the house, where the sharp scent of coal smoke mingled with the crisp cold night. Was this his home? Another victim’s? What was Talent doing now? To go inside was a must. Even so, the urge to stay outside was strong. Cursing inwardly, Mary went through the keyhole, as unnerving an experience as any.

She did not linger in the dark halls—nothing alive was on the ground floor. What she did see, however, were fine furnishings, if somewhat sparse. The house felt unused and forlorn. Beneath the emptiness, however, a glimmer of Jack Talent hummed. Faint echoes of his essence ran from the door and up the stairs, as if he frequently took this path, never lingering in the public rooms but always going into the private areas of the house. Mary followed the trail. Too soon, the door from which the sole light shone was before her.

Had she a heart, it would have been working at top speed. She had to enter, had to believe that he would not see her. Had to believe that he was innocent. Only one way to find out.

The room was a bedroom. A sense of familiarity struck her, as if she’d been here before. Then she realized that it was filled with Talent’s furniture from his old room at Ranulf House. The sound of water tinkling caught her attention. Rising into the upper reaches of the ceiling, Mary drifted with caution. Most people never looked up. Certainly not in their own homes. But then, Jack Talent was not most people.

All thought ended as she entered the bathing room and found him. Happy Christmas, but he was a sight. One that had her spirit swelling, then tightening, with a surge of emotion. Hunched before the washbasin, Talent’s bare back was to her. She’d never given much thought to the aesthetic qualities of the male back. Perhaps because she hadn’t seen a truly beautiful one in the flesh until now, and thus hadn’t had a chance to appreciate how elegant the lines could be.

The mellow glow of lamplight caressed Talent’s smooth skin, highlighting the clean symmetry of his broad, straight shoulders and the tight slabs of muscled flesh that flanked the valley of his spine. Pale linen drawers hung loosely on his narrow hips, low enough to expose where his spine met the indented globes of his arse. Happy Christmas, indeed.