about her shady ways. The thought almost had her rising up and walking out of the room. She resisted the urge. Whatever he was to her, he deserved to be found. The others were fond of him, though lord knew why; the man was a braggart and a hypocrite.
Even so, she settled back and let her fingers stroke the smooth leather. Such a comfortable chair. One could drift off to sleep in its arms without even realizing. His essence lingered here—a dark, complex mix, like aged Scotch, smoky and rich yet with a sharp bite. It disturbed, pulling one down into a confused mire. Mary took a quick breath and willed herself to sink deep. Deeper into the unwelcoming feel of Jack Talent.
“You will owe me,” she muttered, not liking the task one bit. But it was working. Some essential part of Jack Talent grabbed hold of her neck as if he’d like to shake it. Most certainly this was Talent. She let it pull her along, and on the next breath, she was drifting. The heavy shroud of her body fell away, and she was lightness and air. A spirit, free to go where she pleased. Only at the moment, Talent had a hold of her. The connection was thin, no more than a thread of light. She concentrated on it. Talent’s light was a base mix of blue and grey, a survivor of life yet conflicted and one of dark thoughts. What concerned her more was the muddy, mustard fog that coated his light. It spoke of pain. Great pain, if one considered how very weak his light glowed.
Up she went, over the smoking chimneys, pitched roofs, and sharp spires of London. Skimming over crowded avenues and the heads of strolling pedestrians. Life teemed, swelled, and extinguished before her. It was, as always, beautiful, mesmerizing, and haunting.
She focused on Jack Talent. She thought of his voice, always hard and unforgiving, thought of his eyes, bottle green and full of distrust. Gods, but it was an exercise in tolerance and a test of her will to keep going. When she reached Victoria Docks, the thread of light flickered, then failed. Below her, a large iron boat was docked. Iron, to keep a shifter contained. Iron, to keep a spirit out. Jack Talent was there.
The tunnel opened up into a massive underground cistern. Win counted at least forty columns, lined with yellowed bricks and topped with Egyptian-style lotus blossom carvings, laid out in a grid pattern and holding up the vaulted ceiling. Torches flickered on either side of each column, providing enough light to turn the dank, fetid water into a golden sea. The place appeared empty, but when they reached the end of the stone dock, Win spied a man sitting upon an ebony chair beside a large door. The bloke appeared to be reading.
The reader did not look up, nor move, as they docked their craft. Poppy’s heels echoed in the hollow place as she led them toward the man, a brute whose burly hands dwarfed the thick book he read.
“Mum,” he said as he turned a page. Win glanced down at the book. Candide. Well then.
“Clive.” Poppy nodded just as the massive door unlocked with apparently no help from anyone. Gears and levers along the front of the door groaned as they released, and the door slowly swung open.
“Who is the fellow reading Voltaire?” Win asked as they went through the door and it creaked shut behind them.
“Clive is our guard.”
“He did not so much as look up.”
“He doesn’t need to. He can read your thoughts from about fifty yards off. He knew we were approaching and who we were long before he saw us. We would not have reached the cistern were we unwanted. The outer doors would have closed on us.”
“A little warning in that regard would not have been remiss, Poppy.” He tried to remember what he’d been thinking of fifty yards off. None of it was anything he wanted old Clive to know about.
Poppy’s lips curled. “You sound quite guilty, you realize.”
“My thoughts are the purest snow.”
As neither of them could quite swallow that, they remained silent as they walked down a white-tiled corridor.
“It looks like the London Underground,” he said after a moment.
“Yes.” She turned a corner. They did not encounter a soul as they went. “We’ve our own train system as well. There are stops beneath a few palaces and Westminster.” She paused before a pair of massive coffered doors. Each