Entwined (15 page)

Oh, but the way he said her name, all oil and flame, as if it burned him to utter it.

Mary dug a fingernail into her palm and modulated her voice. “Mr. Talent.”

He paused for a moment, his brows raising a touch in reproach. She’d been childish in not giving him the proper form of address, but some things burned for her too.

His quick, irrepressible smirk said he knew as much. “Master,” he reminded her.

He loved that she had to call him “Master.” In their first year in training, he’d taken every opportunity to make her use the official title for all male regulators. Their gazes held, and heat rose to her cheeks. Thank God she hadn’t the complexion to blush or he’d be all over her. “Master Talent,” she ground out.

His annoying smirk deepened, and her nails dug deeper into the flesh of her palms. One day…

“Now that we have our forms of address clear,” cut in Wilde, “might we proceed with the actual investigation? Or shall we continue with this little pissing contest?”

“Pray continue. If Chase can manage to refrain from straying off track, that is.” Talent adjusted his broad shoulders in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.

Never react.
She turned her gaze upon the director. “I was ready to hear the facts of the case twenty minutes ago, Director.”

Talent bristled, and she let a small smile escape. He bristled further, but Director Wilde ploughed ahead.

“Good.” Setting his hands upon the polished mahogany table, Director Wilde proceeded to give them the facts. Mary had already memorized them, and so she let the director’s words drift over her as she studied Talent. The man was good, his strong, blunt features not revealing any hint that he might have personal knowledge of the Bishop of Charing Cross’s most recent kill.

One powerful arm rested upon the table, and the fabric of his plain black suit coat bunched along the large swell of his bicep. Talent did not so much as twitch when the director set down a photograph of the last victim.

“Mr. Keating of Park Place,” said Director Wilde. “As with the other murders, he has been branded with the Bishop’s cross. The sole difference in this victim is that, while the others were demons, this man was a shifter, and by all accounts a law-abiding citizen of London.”

Mary glanced at the photo, featuring a young man stripped naked. The cross branding his chest was a raw, ugly wound, but it was his eyes, wide and staring, that made her clockwork heart hurt. It was the expression of an innocent man pleading for mercy.

Talent looked as well. And when he did, she watched him. The ends of his brows lifted a fraction, and she was inclined to believe that he was surprised. Then again, he had always been a fine actor. In the beginning of his association with the SOS, Talent had made a name for himself by successfully tricking a powerful primus demon into believing he was Poppy Lane. Of course, being able to shift to look exactly like Poppy had been part of it, but it was his mimicking of her character to the letter that had made the difference between success and catastrophe.

How could a man who had nearly died defending others be a murderer? But Mary feared she understood all too well. Although he was arrogant, obnoxious, and a general ass, he’d survived an ordeal that would break most men. Was he irrevocably broken?

“Do you recognize the victim, Master Talent?”

Wilde’s query had Mary focusing once more.

Talent’s heavily lidded eyes lifted from the photograph. “Shifters by nature are a solitary lot. No, I did not know Mr. Keating.” His long fingers curled into a fist upon the table. “I was under the impression that the SOS kept the identity of shifters secret.”

The director’s mouth tightened. “We do. There is no indication that the files have been breached.”

Talent made a noise that might have been construed as a snort, but it was just soft enough to get by Wilde without earning any reproach. For once, however, Mary agreed with Talent’s sentiment.

After researching long into the night, Mary had learned that, in the last hundred years, the SOS had made a concerted effort to locate and document the existence of all shifters living in Europe. A daunting task. However, when the Nex began hunting shifters for their blood—whose properties gave demons the ability to shift into anything—the SOS, realizing its mistake in outing shifters, provided as much protection as it could by offering them new identities and keeping their whereabouts hidden. But it was a constant battle, for the Nex, an organization dedicated to seeing supernaturals rule the world over humans, was resourceful and ruthless.

Talent leaned forward a fraction. “Who was Keating? Before?”

“Johannes Maxum.” Wilde pulled a paper from his file and handed it to Talent. “He’s an older shifter. Date of birth unknown, but he once worked as an alchemist for Augustus the Strong in the quest to discover the Chinese’s secret to making porcelain.”

Talent scanned the page, then set it down. Protocol dictated that he hand the paper to Mary, and she might have been insulted at his obvious slight, had she not been expecting it. No matter, she’d read about Maxum as well. Besides, Talent’s juvenile tactics would not cow her.

In any event, Director Wilde was now looking at both of them. “Research has been instructed to provide any and all assistance you might require.”

“Thank you, Director,” Mary said. “We shall keep you informed as the case proceeds.”

Talent’s jaw snapped up as if he’d been punched. “We?”

The force of his inner agitation was a maelstrom creaking against the walls. Any moment now it would break. Mary remained calm. “We are to be partners now, Master Talent. Or haven’t you been paying attention?”
And I will stick to you like a barnacle until I find out the truth.

The small vein at his temple pulsed. “I work alone. Always have.”

Wilde laid a hand over the file. “There is a time to every purpose under the heaven, Master Talent. Which includes knowing when to receive help.” The steely look in the director’s eyes made it clear that Talent would find no leeway should he protest.

The sound of Talent’s teeth grinding filled the room. “I was under the impression Mistress Chase was here in a clerical capacity.”

“You hoped,” Mary corrected. “Otherwise, I have grave concerns regarding your propensity for jumping to conclusions.”

Talent leaned his weight on the table as his gaze bore into her. “Keep baiting me, Chase, and you’ll find out what else I have a propensity for.”

She leaned in as well, until they faced each other like dogs in a pit ring. “I am quaking in my knickers.”

“There you go, mentioning your knickers.” His mouth slanted, and his eyes gleamed dark green. “What I cannot discern is if you only do so to me, or if you want the whole of the SOS to be thinking about them.”

“Why, Master Talent, are you trying to tell me that you think about my knickers?”

His lips pinched so tight that she had to bite back a grin. A low growl rumbled from the vicinity of his chest.

“Children.” Director Wilde’s expression was stern, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “The discussion is over. You will work together on this.” His good humor fled. “And you will not fail the SOS. Now”—he motioned to the door with his chin—“take your squabble out of here. Perhaps you can pull Mistress Chase’s braids in the common room, Master Talent.”

* * *

On the outside, Mary knew she appeared serene as she left the meeting room. On the inside, however, she quivered in anticipation. For years she and Talent had detested each other. He treated her as if she were some low, conniving wretch. Solely because she was a GIM.
Lousy, arrogant bounder.

The outer hall was cool and quiet. A calm before the inevitable storm. And that storm was right on her heels. Although, in truth, Jack Talent reminded her more of a panther, all dark and brooding, his powerful body so still when at rest, yet capable of instant, violent action.

Mary headed down the corridor, knowing that, while he made no sound, Talent stalked her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled, and her heart whirred away within her breast. With his shifter’s senses, he’d hear her spinning heart, she was sure.
Oh, yes, come and get me, and we shall see how well you dance around the truth now, Jack Talent.
It was torture not to quicken her step or turn around.

By the time she reached the shadowed corner that led to another section of headquarters, her breast was rising and falling in agitation. Damn him.

And damn her too, for some small, traitorous part of her liked the chase, reveled in it. Gripping her weapon, she waited until his heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and then she spun.

He grunted as they both hit the wall. The hard expanse of his chest barely gave under her weight as she pressed against him. For a moment they both panted, then his gaze lowered to the knife she had at his throat.

She had expected his rage, but not his grin, that wide, brilliant grin that lit up his dour features and did strange things to her equilibrium. His cheeky smile grew as he spoke. “Pulling iron on me, Chase? How bloodthirsty.” His hot breath fanned her cheeks. “I knew you had it in you.”

She did not ease her grip. Training with Poppy Lane had honed her skills. The slightest move from him, and he would be tasting that iron. “Trying to intimidate me, Talent?”

His body tightened, but he kept his hands at his sides. “What the devil are you playing at? You aren’t a field agent. You’ve been hanging on to Mrs. Lane like a limpet, and now you want to partner.” He leaned in, not flinching when the tip of her iron blade cut into his skin. “With me.”

A rivulet of crimson blood trickled down his throat. She tore her gaze away from it. “This is the most important case the SOS has seen all year. Any regulator would be mad to pass up the opportunity to take it.” When he snorted, she gave him a pretty smile. “Who my partner is makes little difference.”

His lips pressed into a flat line. “This is my investigation. It always has been.”

From the moment she’d asked Poppy to be assigned to the case, she’d known she’d face his rage. But she’d told Talent the truth: Having the opportunity to move away from her assistant’s role into fieldwork was not to be missed. And if he was guilty of murder, she would be the one to take him down. Keeping that little personal victory in mind, it was easy to give him a bland look. “Oh yes, and you’ve done a bang-up job with the case so far.”

His growl seemed to vibrate through her, but Mary ignored it and the way the hairs lifted along the back of her neck. “What gave you reason to believe that it would remain yours alone after all this time, when you have nothing to show for your efforts?”

With an unfortunately easy move, he shrugged free. She let him; bodily contact was not a situation she wanted to prolong, as it was far too unsettling. He loomed over her. “Toss out what insults you will, Mistress Merrily.” He poked her shoulder with a hard finger. “But do not for a moment try to undermine me. You think I’m a bastard now, try handling me in a temper.”

He turned to storm off when she grabbed his lapel and hauled him back. Taking pleasure in the shock that parted his lips, she smiled. “I’ve seen your temper, Master Talent. You haven’t been privy to mine.” With lazy perusal, her gaze took in his heightened color and narrowed eyes. “While you’ll be shouting about like a tot who’s lost his lolly, I’ll be the lash you never saw coming.”

It was quite satisfactory to leave him openmouthed and silent—for once.

About the Author

Kristen Callihan is a child of the eighties, which means she’s worn neon skirts, black lace gloves, and combat boots (although never all at once), and can quote John Hughes’s movies with the best of them. A lifelong daydreamer, she finally realized that the characters in her head needed a proper home and thus hit the keyboard. She believes that falling in love is one of the headiest experiences a person can have, so naturally she writes romance. Her love of superheroes, action movies, and history has led her to write historical paranormals. Kristen lives in the Washington, D.C., area. And when not writing, she looks after two children, one husband, and a dog—the fish can fend for themselves.

You can learn more at:

KristenCallihan.com

Twitter @Kris10Callihan

Facebook.com/KristenCallihan

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