Chapter Twenty-eight
They searched the Noble house from the dank cellars to the roof rafters, but found no sign of Jack Talent. And so they headed for London and Ranulf House to let Mary off there. She would alert Ian Ranulf to the problem, and the lycans would begin the search for Talent.
“It will soothe The Ranulf to search,” Mary said. “But they will not find him before I do.” Though she and Talent had never got along, fierce determination heated her voice and shone in her eyes. But her fervor quickly died.
Mary’s lids lowered as she grimaced. “I ought to have realized that one stole my blood aboard the Ignitus.”
Poppy rested a hand upon Mary’s. “None of this is your fault.”
No, it was his. Winston ought to have at least noticed Talent was not himself. He clutched the handle of his walking stick harder so that he would not smash something. “What is to say that Talent is still alive? Do you not suppose that he might have been dispatched when we discovered the demon? Or perhaps drained dry like poor Mrs. Noble?”
“Mr. Talent is a shifter.” Poppy glared out the window as if she too were overcome with distaste. “His blood is extremely valuable, as it allows a demon to change appearance with the ease of a shifter. As Mr. Talent is one of only five known shifters in Europe, he is very rare.”
“Gods. I had no idea. I simply assumed he was one of many.”
Poppy’s eyes went cold with anger. “Talent took risks flaunting his nature. There are always those who would hunt down a shifter and use them. Which is why there are so few left alive.”
“No one deserves to be used against their will,” said Mary with sudden anger. She ducked her head, and the brim of her bonnet hid her expression but her gloves stretched tight against the knuckles of her clenched fist. “There are no better trackers than a GIM, Inspector Lane. I will not fail.”
After leaving Mary and their baggage at Ranulf House, Poppy gave the coachman directions to Fleet Street market, of all places. “One of the entrances to the SOS headquarters is there,” she explained to Winston. “There are others close by, but this one will garner less attention.”
The coach let them off at the market. A light breeze caught the pervasive stench of moldering water, garbage, and cooking and carried it off. People crowded the sidewalks, creating a general din of laughter and conversation. St. Paul’s dome shone against the grey sky. He hefted the satchel they’d brought along more securely over his shoulder and then offered Poppy his arm.
Daylight dimmed as they turned a corner and came alongside the Fleet river canal bridge. There the River Fleet slipped beneath London on its subterranean course. Poppy stopped by a service door and, blocking the door with her body, quickly pushed a series of numbers into the punch lock. Despite the worn and rusted appearance of the door, the lock clicked with well-oiled ease. She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the door open. “This way.”
The scent of mildew and fetid air washed over them as they stepped inside the dark space. Winston blinked, waiting for his sight to adjust to the dimness, since the only light came from behind them and the small pinholes from the sewer grates. Foul didn’t begin to describe the smell. The rumble of street traffic and the dripping of water echoed in the underground tunnel. Without further ado, Poppy nudged him inside.
“It isn’t the most pleasant of entrances, I’ll grant you.” She pulled a slim cylinder from one of her many hidden pockets, and with the flick of a knob, yellow light shot from its end. It was an electric torch. He’d heard of them; hell, he’d even seen a rendering of one, but nothing as elegant as the model she held.
“Hold a moment.” He took the torch from her and studied it. The thing was heavy, an effective weapon if need be. The light it exuded was strong enough. Certainly better than nothing. “It’s brilliant.”
Poppy allowed a quick smile. “The SOS is privy to technological advancement that the public doesn’t see. We have a team of inventors who are quite clever. Our top inventor built several prototypes this year. I’ve been testing this one.” She moved them forward, and Win duly pointed the torch toward the ground before them to light the way. “It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, so we’ll have to be quick.”
She guided them along a narrow walkway that hugged the underground section of the river. Now that they had a bit of light, he could see that the tunnel was about twenty feet in diameter and lined with bricks. It extended in both directions, allowing the river to flow beneath London proper. A small craft was moored at a bend in the tunnel. “We are going on that, I presume?”
“Yes.” Her steps were quicker now, her countenance an eerie green in the weak light. “This tunnel leads directly to our headquarters.”
They were silent as she stepped into the craft and lit the lantern hanging off the prow, and he untied the mooring rope. The boat rocked precipitously as he stepped in, and she pushed off, using the long pole provided. Win widened his stance and, taking the pole from her, acted the part of gondolier.
“Something about that encounter with the demon bothered you. What was it?” He had questions on top of questions but he knew peppering her with them now wouldn’t get him answers. Tension held reign over her slim shoulders and long neck. Her fists gleamed white among the dark folds of her skirt.
Beneath the straight slash of her brows, her eyes were pained and withdrawn. “It is nonsensical, really.”
“Emotions often are. But tell me anyway.”
They were silent for a moment, with only the trickle of water and the distant clatter of the life above making noise.
“Knowing that a demon hid among us, seeing you slay it…” Her fists clenched tighter. “I don’t know, Win.” Dark eyes lifted to find his. “I am used to danger following me. I am not used to it following us.”
“Do you think it different for me?” He put his back into the next push, and they surged forward. “The lot I usually deal with might not be undead or, Christ, turn into spiders”—That still had his nerves dancing—“but the danger of being gutted is still there.”
Her gaze steadied on his scars and went darker still. Win did not let her comment but continued. “I rather liked that danger, if we are telling truths. But it is another thing entirely to see you in the thick of it. Especially now.”
Ducking her head, Poppy’s voice grew unusually soft. “We’ve already lost too much in Talent.”
Win’s fingers tightened on the pole. “You believe Miss Chase will succeed?”
She smiled thinly. “Do you know it took Daisy one day of being a GIM to weed out the fact that I was Mother? The little brat followed me to work, and not once did I notice. GIMs find what others cannot. They are the best spies we have. Which is why goodwill between them and the SOS is so important.”
Her good humor faded, and the air grew chillier still as she glared pure murder into the dark, foul waters. “Regardless of whether or not we find Talent, the ones who took him will pay.”
Apprehension tightened Win’s gut. “Poppy Ann,” he said, “do not even consider haring off on your own.” Which he was certain she was.
The eloquent lift of her red brow confirmed it. “I’m not going to sit in a bunker and twiddle my thumbs while you and our child are in danger.”
Win gritted his teeth as he shoved the boat farther along. “I swear to all that is holy, if you do not stop mollycoddling me, Poppy, I shall take you over my knee.”
Her brow rose higher. “I should like to see you try.”
“Shall we have a go later?” The notion inflamed him in more ways than one.
“I’d freeze your arse before you got started.”
“Play dirty, do you?”
“Always.”
True anger rose to the surface. It ought to be bloody degrading to know his wife could take him down without mussing her hair, but what really bothered him were the risks she took. How close had death been to her over the years? And he hadn’t even known to comfort her.