Shadowdance
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- ISBN: 9781455520817 (pbk.)
- ISBN: 1455520810 (pbk.)
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Physical Description:
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446 pages ; 18 cm. - Edition: First edition.
- Publisher: New York : Forever, 2013.
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General Note: | Series numeration from NoveList. |
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Subject: | Man-woman relationships Fiction Magic Fiction Good and evil Fiction Werewolves Fiction London (England) Fiction |
Genre: | Love stories. Historical fiction. Romance fiction. Paranormal fiction. |
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- 2 of 2 copies available at Evergreen Indiana. (Show)
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Shadowdance
The Darkest London Series: Book 4
By Kristen Callihan
Grand Central Publishing
All rights reserved.
Four Years Later—London, November 1885
Pulling the hood of her billowing black cloak farther over her head, Mary Chasewove through the mass of humanity that made up London. The November eve wascrisp and clear, and her breath left in soft puffs of white. A vermilion-and-goldsky hovered above, a rarity here where fog usually held dominance overeverything and everyone. Against the brilliant canopy of dusk, the dome of St.Paul's was bleak and grey, flanked in silhouette by the cathedral's smallerspires.
Traffic became a crush as she made her way along Ludgate Hill, reaching thecircus. Omnibuses, carriages, pigs, cattle, and drays fought for space on theroad, while hawkers, clerks, newsboys, homemakers, and pickpockets fought forspace on the walkways. A perfect place to become lost. At least Mary hoped so.It was essential that she not be followed. Her position within the SOS dependedupon stealth and secrecy.
A stew of excitement and anxiety thickened within her. She had a feeling thattonight she would finally get her chance to prove herself. For nearly two yearsshe'd worked as assistant to Poppy Lane, otherwise known as Mother, leader ofthe Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals, or the SOS. But Mary wantedmore. A chance to work on an actual case, to be out in the field with otherregulators, agents of the SOS. For, as a certain obnoxious and arrogantregulator had been quick to point out, the ones in the field were at theforefront of danger. And although Mary was trained, she'd yet to be tested.
Mary sidestepped a group of boys hanging on the railing at the base of theWaithman obelisk and then passed a boardman advertising Collingworth'sCigarillos for the Improvement of Asthmatical Ailments. A hollow whistle lowed,and the ground beneath her feet trembled as a great steamer rumbled over thecauseway and into the station beyond. Right on time. For once.
Thick black smoke rolled down to the masses, and Mary's mouth filled with thebitter taste of burnt coal. Using the cover of smoke, she rushed toward theoverpass, and in the confusion of pedestrians hurrying along, she pulled hercloak off, quickly bunching it up. She emerged on the other side, no longer ayoung woman wearing a long cloak, but an old grandmother, white-haired andhunched, leaning on a cane for support. Traffic flowed around her as she hobbledalong, her massive dress swaying about her small frame. Slowly now.
Just before the looming cathedral, Mary joined a cluster of vendors, the scentsof meat pies, hot buns, and coffee making her mouth water. She slipped a bobinto the hand of one crone selling muffins, then, quick as a cat, ducked behindthe wide cart. In a flash she was a lean and spry youth, her step light, herhair out of sight beneath her cap.
Mary chuffed as she skipped along, losing herself in the crowd once again beforeslipping into a tavern on the heels of a man doing the same. The odor of sweat,spirits, and tallow mingled. Few spoke here, and if so it was to mutter for moredrink. Keeping her gaze roving, she headed for the back room. The door openedeasily.
"'Bout time you showed," snapped a male voice as she sat down at the smalltable obscured in shadows.
Mary didn't bother with a reply. An annoyed huff followed, and the man leanedforward, moving out of the darkness. He was handsome, well formed, and welldressed. Quite lovely really. Mary scowled.
"You are foolish, Mercer, to choose that identity." Mary didn't know whose itwas, but based on the cut of the suit Mercer wore, she gathered that the poorfellow had been wealthy. It was a tricky business for a demon to take over thelife of another. Harder still when the person lived in the public sphere.
Mercer sneered. "I'll have you know that this form gets me into more places thanyou'll ever creep." An ugly gleam lit his blue eyes. "And more beds."
She swallowed down a shiver of disgust. How many women were lured by this falsefront, having no notion of what they truly bedded? "And they'll all remember youtoo. Hard to miss, wearing such a fancy skin. Your vanity will see you dead oneday. Which is no concern of mine." She shrugged. "Save when you are dealing withme. You get caught, and it will be my pleasure to strip you of that skin." Thedemon had been an excellent informant to her over the years, but she didn't haveto like him.
Mercer's handsome lips twisted, and for a small moment his irises flickeredmustard yellow. "Mayhaps others will be wanting the information I have. I'mthinking I might sell to the highest—" He yelped as her knife slammed intothe table with a thud.
Mercer's gaze drifted down to the sharp point lodged between his pale fingers.Mary looked only at him. "Do you know how a GIM ties a cravat, Mercer?"
He pressed his lips together.
She leaned in a bit, picking up the noxious scent of sulfur and smoke.Bloody foul raptor demons. Mary's voice was a blade in the thick air."We make a nice, deep cut here"—she pointed toward his throat—"sothat we might pull your tongue out as far as it will go before we wrap it aboutyour neck."
Sweat pebbled along his noble brow but his yellow eyes glared. "You gonna flapyour chaps all night? Or do you want to hear what I have to say?"
Mary sat back with a pleasant smile. "Talk."
His large hand lifted from the table. He made a show of adjusting the lapels ofhis stolen coat. "I gather you know the Bishop's been busy of late."
The so-called Bishop of Charing Cross was making quite the reputation forhimself. First appearing in London in January of 1884, he'd started a sensationby leaving victims with their hearts ripped out, spines severed, and chestsbranded with a small cross. Their bodies were always found on the plinth ofNelson's Column in Trafalgar Square where it faced Charing Cross. A feweyewitnesses—of dubious credibility—claimed to have seen a manwearing long black robes fleeing the scene.
The newsboys, being the inventive sort, had dubbed the killer the Bishop ofCharing Cross on account of the cross brand and the fact that the robes weresimilar to the cassocks worn by clergy.
So far he'd claimed five victims. Wealthy men, some titled, some not, all ofthem most thoroughly slaughtered. Only the SOS knew that the victims were, intruth, an assortment of raptor and sanguis demons. It was the duty of the SOS toboth protect humans from supernatural harm and hide proof of supernaturalinvolvement in the human world.
"We know," she said. "You'll have to do better than that."
Mercer's grin was evil and cold. "The Bishop made a wee mistake whilst doing hisdirty business this last kill."
Mary did not move, but every muscle in her body tensed. "Go on."
Mercer paused, waiting, his expression said, for her to show a bit of goodfaith. Mary tapped her thigh, and the unmistakable jingle of coin rang out.Satisfied, he looked about for a moment, then leaned in close, bringing with himthe scent of rotting onions and perfumed pomade. "I was there when he left hisvictim out in the open."
Mary stilled. "You saw him?"
One blink.
Mary watched the demon. "Risky of you."
"Don't I know it, love." He paled then. "I'm thinking if the wind were not on myside, I might not be here now to share my good fortune."
Her heart began to whir. "He could scent you?" Most supernaturals had anelevated sense of smell, but some had a more refined sense than others.
Mercer's long finger tapped the scarred table. "The question you ought to beasking, love, is how much does this information mean to you?"
Her smile was slow and thin. She worked it, letting him feel the menace behindit. Two years of training to be a regulator had taught her many things,especially how to wield information like a whip. "Ah, now, Mercer. I alreadyhave valuable knowledge, do I not?"
His brows lowered, and she whispered on. "Information that might slip out, carryon the wind where anyone might hear. Such as how you know the identity of theBishop—"
"Hold your tongue!" He made to grab her hand.
Mary's knife was under the table in an instant. She pressed the blade in deepenough for him to feel. "No, you hold. There are a lot of soft bits here thatyou might miss, Mercer."
Fangs shot out as he growled. "You don't fight fair no more, Chase."
"More's the pity for you." Mary had wearied of playing it clean. It got hernowhere with the dregs she worked amongst.
"Pay me and I'll tell you."
She didn't move. "If you play me false, I will find you."
"Understood." He raised one brow, prompting her to act. "Now hurry up, I've anassignation with a plump and wealthy widow."
Mary quelled her disgust. A bag of coins hit the table.
Mercer licked his lips. "You won't have to look far for your Bishop, love." Hegrinned then, his eyes alight with cruel mischief. "He's been right under yournose the whole time. Might even call him an SOS favorite."
Dread pulled at Mary's spine. "Name."
"You know it well." His words seemed to slow, growing more distinct, andsuddenly Mary did not want to hear them. But they came regardless, ruining herevening and instantly making her life that much worse. "Mr. Jack Talent."
Later that night, in another part of town—
The moon hung bright over Trafalgar Square, lending the vast space a dreamlikequality in which shadows danced beneath the monuments and fountain pools gleamedwith silver effervescence. A soft wind ghosted low over the pavers, kicking updust and bits of rubbish.
The hour turned and, in the distance, Big Ben chimed. Clean, resonant notes ofthe Westminster quarters rolled over London, a soothing lullaby, a musicalconstant that had heralded life, death, and all that came between. With a steadydong, dong, dong, the hours rang out. As the last note faded, the nightwatch strolled along Charing Cross and called the hours.
"One o'clock and all is well!"
Save all was not well.
Scurrying along the dark alleyways where only the desperate or despot daredtread was a raptor demon. A foul creature who fed on misery and pain, the demonhad his pick of nourishment in London. Tonight's clear skies and crisp weatherpromised that plenty of London's populace would be out and about, just waitingto be pulled into the darkness. An excellent night for hunting.
Only he was not the sole hunter out for blood. And as he followed the night-bobby,intent upon making a small meal out of the copper, death followed.
His stalker growled low in his throat, a sound so soft that the demon remainedunaware. Ironic, thought the hunter, that serving up death was the only time hetruly felt alive. A rage began to boil within his veins and pull his skin tight.So tight that he barely felt the cold November air bite at his exposed cheeks.The very stink of the demon he followed made his nostrils pinch and his insidespitch. How well he knew this one's foul stench.
The bobby stopped, perhaps feeling a thread of danger. After looking about, hishandlebar mustache quivering in the breeze, he slipped into a tavern.
Thwarted, but not for long, the raptor turned down a dark corridor, and thehunter followed him. The lively song of a fiddle danced along the cobbles and onits heels came the laughter of men. They were gathered at the very end of thelane, hunched over a fire barrel. The raptor paused and smiled as if savoringthe moment. The hunter savored it too, letting the hate within him grow. Andthen he attacked, slamming into the unsuspecting demon and dragging him into thedeepest part of an alley.
Glowing yellow eyes glared back, fangs bared in a hiss. The hunter stalkedforward, letting the raptor see him, take a good look at death. And the raptor'seyes went wide, his grey skin going sickly white beneath the moonlight.
"I see you know me." The hunter's voice was whisper-soft and ice-cold, evenwhile his body grew, tearing at the seams of his coat. Fangs slid over hisbottom lip, and his fingertips throbbed under the weight of his long claws. Theshift was always the same, taking on the form in which death would best bedelivered.
A calculating gleam lit the raptor's eyes. "Oh, yes. I'd say I know you well.Tasty blood you have, young lad."
Raptors never were very intelligent. Like a whip, the hunter lashed out. Hisclaws sliced into the demon's gut and shot up, under the ribs, to grasp the hot,beating heart within. The demon screamed, his body bowing, his eyes rollingback.
Holding his prize tight, the hunter hauled his catch up close. "Say my name."
The raptor's bottom lip quivered. Just once before he spoke up. "Talent."
Jack Talent gave the foul heart a squeeze. "Again."
"Talent! Talent!" The demon writhed in his grip, unable to fight back or getaway now that Jack held his heart fast.
A cool calm settled over Jack, easing the pain within him, if only for a moment,and he smiled grimly. "Wanted it to be my name on your lips when I sent you tohell." And then he ripped the raptor's heart out.
Washed in blood, Jack leaned down and severed the demon's spine, and the lightdied in the demon's eyes.
Peace ebbed away before the body even cooled. But Jack knew peace would nevertruly be his until they all died. Throwing the body over one shoulder, he madehis way to Trafalgar Square.
Not a soul stirred as he came upon Nelson's Column. There he would leave thebody, just as he had all the others. But as he moved closer, and the moonlightilluminated the spot before the plinth, his breath stopped and his bloodstilled. A body already lay there.
CHAPTER 2It was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of CharingCross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strangeones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been theregulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on hisotherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one offive—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took itpersonally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnervedby this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.
Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that ledfrom the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full ofregulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like beingaround them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that account. The otherssteered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he couldhandle, hell welcome, but pity?
One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in histhroat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beastwould break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the wayof a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He waseverything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator wasthe only certain and good thing in Jack's life.
At the end of the black marble hall, a guard stood beside a massive steel door.He saw Jack coming and swiftly opened it.
"Master Talent," said the guard, "they are waiting for you."
He was precisely on time and the director was already waiting? And what did theguard mean by "they"? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloodydevil would be here—
Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he'dmaintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no ... they wouldn't dare. He eyed theinner wood door that blocked him from the meeting room. She was in there.
His muscles clenched tight as he forced himself to enter.
"Ah, Master Talent," said Director Wilde from the head of the table. "Right ontime. Excellent. Let us proceed." His clipped voice was unusually animated, asif he knew Jack's displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room andreveled in it. Which wouldn't be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators ontheir toes.
Jack heard every word, but his gaze moved past the director and locked on her.Mary Chase sat at Wilde's right, serene and ethereal as ever. Her face was aperfect replica of Botticelli's Venus, and her body ... no, he wouldn't thinkabout that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought toolong on Mary Chase.
Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receivingend of Jack Talent's hateful glare, she'd be immune to it by now. Unfortunatelyit still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging atsomething deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair andhit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her somesmall satisfaction.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Shadowdance by Kristen Callihan. Copyright © 2013 Kristen Callihan. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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