“There’s a dead man up on deck. He’s causing quite a commotion.”

“Yes, I know. Talent and I almost caught the bastard who did it in the act. It was a demon. We followed him down here.”

Damn it all, he’d almost killed her, and she talked as though they were at tea. Her sharp eyes took in their surroundings. “Where is Talent now?”

“Ferreting the demon out from the other end of the ship. Hopefully he won’t run afoul of Miss Chase and nearly kill her as well.”

“She’s up inspecting the body, so that is doubtful.” Poppy kept her profile to him. “I think he got away.” Her gaze returned to him. “I came in through the east entrance. You?”

“West.” His fingers twitched at his side.

“As I thought. Either we missed him or he’s gone.”

How could she be so calm? The thrill of the chase, even the fear, had transmuted into something earthier and basic. His blood was up, and to his horror, he had a cockstand one could hang a hat on. Winston wanted nothing more than to toss up Poppy’s skirts and pound into her. Like a rutting animal. Worse, the blasted woman appeared completely unaffected and would most likely slap him should he try anything. He shook his head and took a breath.

“Go back to the cabin, and I’ll search the rest of the area.”

They’d been together long enough for him to know her “surely you jest” look quite well. He did not care a whit. The woman wasn’t facing that thing. Nor could he think with her nearby. His hand curled around Poppy’s arm, holding her secure lest she get any fanciful notions of leaving his side. “Either you go, or we both wait it out here.”

Her breath was cool on his cheek. “Listen, I’ve more experience with these matters than—”

“Forgive me, but I was under the impression that your role within your organization was of an administrative nature.”

Moss brown eyes flashed darkly. “Are you suggesting that I cannot handle myself in the field?”

“I am suggesting that one of us has greater experience in the field and that person is not you.”

“Of all the preposterous, pompous—”

Winston clamped a hand over her mouth and dropped to a crouch. The step of a boot had sounded beyond, and his blood froze. Poppy did not fight, and he let his hand slide free.

“Left corner about ten yards off.” Poppy’s voice was but a breath. Which rather amused him, given that they’d just been talking loud enough for anyone to hear them. Still, he simply nodded and held her tight against him. Christ but they’d been squabbling like infants, and now they were trapped. His muscles tensed as a deliberate step sounded just around the crate. Whoever it was wasn’t bothering with stealth. Poppy stiffened as well. Their eyes met, and her hand slipped into his pocket and wrapped around his gun. Bloody blasting hell. He held her gaze, his heart wrenching in his chest for fear for her. It ought to be him protecting her. But he gave a slight nod. Let her aim be true.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow loomed. Everything slowed and yet sped up as he twisted to the side, and Poppy lifted the gun and fired. Her arm bobbled at the last second. A bad shot. Winston reached out for the gun, ready to take it from her and shoot the demon down. Smoke clogged his throat and ruined his vision. His ears rang from the report of the gun. But not enough to miss Talent’s irate shout.

“What the bleeding devil?”

Gun smoke dissipated, and Talent stood, glaring pure murder down at them. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Poppy wrenched free of Winston and rose. “Had I been, you would be dead, Mr. Talent.”

Getting to his feet was far harder, for visions of Poppy being cut down before him still swirled within Winston’s head. But he straightened and adjusted his lapels if only to do something to calm himself. “You shot wide, didn’t you?” And damn if pride didn’t swell within him. Fancy that.

Poppy did not smile, but it lurked in her eyes. That, and a certain smugness that irked. “How good of you to notice, Mr. Lane.”

“Well, I didn’t,” snapped Talent. “You scared ten years off my life.”

“Mr. Lane and I were defending ourselves. You ought to have made your presence known.”

Talent snorted. “Right. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Demon, I’m walking toward you to ascertain whether or not you are my mates. Care to clarify for me?’ ”

Winston smothered a laugh with a cough. “Well then. All’s well and all of that.”

They both glared at him, so he simply led the way out.

“How did you track the thing down here?” Winston asked Poppy as they left the hold while scanning the area for lingering threats. His nerves were shot for the day and, short of drinking a restorative, he could only ask questions and hope the familiar practice would further calm him.

“Goggles.” Poppy tapped a purple lens resting on the top of her head. “Demons are born in the Underworld and thus carry a trace of it on their flesh in the form of chemical rays. The violet lens picks up those rays.” She gave a nod in the direction of the stairwell. “He left strong traces all the way down, but they trailed off here. I suspect because he calmed down once in his element.”

She handed him the goggles. “The rays are strongest when they are afraid or exerting themselves.”

They’d reached the stairwell. Torn between gaping at his wife—she of the demon hunting expertise—and the goggles, he took a moment to put them on. The world dimmed to a soft violet, not nearly light enough to see properly. Winston gnashed his teeth. Poppy had walked into that hold nearly blind.

“Here.” Poppy leaned in and fiddled with something on the side of the lens. A click and a soft whirring sounded. Win started as a series of lights flickered around the rims of the lenses.

Beside him, Talent made a sound of pleasure. “Would you look at that. Brilliant.”

Poppy’s crisp voice was at Winston’s ear. “Now you look.”

He turned his head toward the iron stairs and sucked in a breath. Footsteps of eerie, glowing violet covered the treads, and a ghostly mist of the same glowing substance hovered in the air.

“Fluorescence,” he said.

“Just so,” said Poppy. “Special lenses, designed by the SOS, capture the refrangibility of the light within the demon’s essence.”

With a resigned sigh, he took off the device. “First werewolves, now this. As a man of logic, I cannot believe I’m saying this, but there are times I think I preferred my state of ignorance.” Win handed Talent the goggles so that he might try them, then turned his attention upon Poppy. “Hell of a thing to discover that the crackpots raving in Piccadilly Circus about monsters among us aren’t all mad.”

Poppy flashed Winston a rare grin. “Don’t go picking out your corner of Piccadilly just yet. There are far greater curiosities than mere demons and werewolves.”

And wasn’t that the truth? “Do not worry, sweet; if anything is to drive me mad, it will be you.”

Mary hated death. Which was rather ironic considering that, as a GIM, she was exposed to as much death as the average grave digger. Though they had the fortune to work with death that was safely boxed up. Fresh death was a GIM’s specialty, and the corpse upon the first class promenade deck was certainly fresh. She edged farther away from the crowd of officers that hovered over their fallen comrade. Mrs. Lane had sent her to watch the proceedings and guard over the corpse, but Mary could not fathom what she could guard it from. The poor man was dead. And beginning to smell.

Discreetly as possible, she pressed a lace kerchief to her nose. It would be intolerable for Mrs. Lane to find out that Mary had a weak stomach when it came to these matters. Somebody had placed a blanket over the man’s upper half, but his legs peeked out from beneath it. Blood, blackening from exposure to the air, seeped around the white trousers of his uniform. Swallowing hard, she looked away and into the eyes of a young officer.

“Oh.” She hadn’t even heard him approaching.

His pleasant face broke into a kind smile. “You shouldn’t be here, Miss. This isn’t a sight for a lady.”

Mary had no response. She was also instructed not to break her cover. Damn but she ought to have come in her ethereal form.

The officer’s genial smile remained. “Besides, the gulls have begun to make a play for him.”

Bile rose in Mary’s throat.

“Don’t worry, Miss. We’ll keep them away.”

She stumbled, bumping into the metal call box that jutted out from the wall. Instantly, the officer was there, grasping her arm. It wasn’t until he touched her that she felt the sting. Gasping, she pulled away. Blood smeared her arm and stained his white glove red.

“I fear you’ve scratched yourself,” he said with a frown at her arm and then to the call box.

“Bother.” Mary cursed herself for being so affected. This could not continue. She had to master death. Yet even as resolve filled her, the breeze sent the stench of decay over her, and she blanched.

Thankfully, the officer was too busy inspecting her arm.

“We can’t have our lovely guest bleeding, now can we?” His dark eyes gleamed with good humor as he stripped off his glove, and with gentle care, wiped the blood from her arm with his bare thumb.

His touch was a lovely warmth against her cold flesh, and she couldn’t find it in herself to protest. He finished by pressing his glove to her arm.

“Shall I see you back to your rooms, Miss?”

And let Poppy discover her weakness? Or, heaven forbid, Jack Talent? She’d rather stop her heart for good. Mary slipped from the officer’s grasp. “That is quite all right. I’m perfectly well, honestly.”

She backed away. There was little she could do here now anyway.

“Good day then, Miss.” The officer bowed politely before returning to the scene of the crime.

Chapter Six

The walk back to his stateroom was not enough time to calm Winston’s thoughts. Demons and Poppy danced around in his head. He’d spent so much time these past months stubbornly maintaining his ire at being lied to that he hadn’t given any thought to the danger Poppy actually placed herself in. The realization made him ill. Fighting demons? Of course she was. Why would he expect anything less from her? All these years of marriage, he’d felt a policeman’s guilt, worrying that his wife would live in fear for him. Hell, she might as well have been patting him on the head and sending him off to school.

Poppy followed along beside him, blithely ignoring the baffled looks their fellow travelers gave to her goggles and mussed hair. Not to mention the blasted knife she still had strapped low on her hips. It was as if she were sending out a dare to all and sundry: Do not fuss with me. That Winston found the costume exceedingly alluring was simply one more irritant to his day.

Still gritting his teeth, he opened the door to his suite and came face to face with a massive steamer trunk tossed open and spilling forth froths of lacy petticoats and silken gowns.

“Well, bugger me.”

He would have expected books and sensible gowns for Poppy’s travel kit, but then as his wife was nothing like the woman he thought he knew, why should fripperies be a surprise? Mindful of his shins, he picked his way around it as Poppy briskly closed the door and turned to confront him.

Poppy’s face, while not an open book, was so familiar to him that he could read her well, and it was amusing to watch her mind work through possible things to say to him. He almost grinned because it was hard to best Poppy. It always had been. But the grin did not grow, for the anger within him was stronger. She expected to “save” him? He liked to think himself a modern man, open to new ideas and possibilities, but a man had his limits. Being nannied by his wife was one of them.

“You are traveling rather heavily these days, Poppy,” he said to break their stalemate.

Poppy’s steady brown eyes assessed him, looking for clues. God, he’d missed watching her think. He pushed the thought from his mind as she came closer. Her voice almost sounded husky when she spoke. “We’ll be sharing a suite.”

“Obviously.” The notion had his cock’s full attention, which made him want to punch something or turn the air blue with curses.

Those watchful eyes of hers narrowed. “You aren’t going to kick up a fuss?”

“Would it change things if I did?”

“I daresay no.” With quick tugs at the tips of her black kid gloves, she removed them and tossed them aside, not bothering to see where they landed. “Though I admit, capitulation was not what I expected.”

Had he not needed to keep an eye on her, capitulation wasn’t what she would have received, either, but he couldn’t very well say that. He had to say something, for she was staring at him again, calculating. Give her enough spare time, and she’d figure him out. “Come now, Poppy, you know how I enjoy rattling your chains.” He allowed himself a small smile. “It is a rare sight to see you off balance.” He shouldn’t have said that. Now heat was creeping up his back and over his collar. A rattled Poppy stirred his blood. Always.

As if thinking much the same thing, pink tinged her cheeks. But she merely pursed her lips, and those straight brows of hers drew together. Time for a change of subject.

“What makes you immune from harm?” He had a good idea, but he wanted to hear her say it. “Why do you think you can fight this thing whereas I cannot?”

She blinked, nonplussed. “You don’t know?”

Meaning she thought he’d asked one of her family members. “I’ll be damned if I asked someone else to tell me my wife’s secrets,” he said. “It’s bloody bad enough that you kept them from me.”