wind came the scent of copper. And shit and piss. Win knew the smell too well. Not just blood. “That is death.”
Moving as one, they stalked toward the scent. Winston’s hand tightened on his walking stick. Above, seagulls squabbled in mid-air, diving and swooping around the massive smokestack.
“Attracted to the blood,” murmured Talent.
Ahead, the deck narrowed as it curved toward the bow of the ship. Lifeboats creaked, and the paddle churned, but not a soul stirred.
They crept closer to the source of the scent. A grunt and a sound unnervingly like that of a man slurping soup came from the other side of the steam funnel. Winston’s hand slipped to the gun hidden within his inner coat pocket. At CID, he wasn’t allowed to carry one, as the populace of London had an aversion to police arming themselves. Even so, he’d used a gun before, when the danger was high. And only a fool would carry a weapon and not know how to wield it. He’d like to think himself not a fool, but a gun hadn’t helped him when a werewolf attacked him. Winston swallowed down the rush of bitterness that filled his mouth.
“Have you a weapon?” he whispered.
Talent spared him a glance. “I’m a shifter.”
Winston supposed that would have to do.
Together, they rushed around the corner, Winston’s gun out and cocked.
“Hell,” Talent said.
Winston stopped short as he spied the body. Male, young, wearing officer’s whites. Torn and bloody throat, his pants gaping open, sightless eyes gazing up to the heavens. Winston took in the particulars, then a shadow flickered in the periphery of his vision. Winston took off after it, with Talent at his heels.
Their feet pounded on the deck as they raced along. The sound of an iron door wrenching open had Winston increasing his pace. He skidded around the corner and tore through the open hatch. A man paused on the stair, his eyes gleaming yellow as he grinned back at them.
Bloody hell. His appearance was identical to the man who lay dead on the deck.
“Demon,” Talent said behind Winston. “Used his victim’s blood to assume his appearance.”
Winston launched forward. He couldn’t shoot in this bloody iron box of a hall, but he could tackle the thing. Unfortunately, it leapt out of range and practically flew down the next flight of stairs. Winston and Talent pounded after it. The stairs rattled and shook with their effort. Sweat stung his eyes as he ran.
The demon slammed open a lower door and disappeared through it. Winston followed an instant later. Dimly lit and barren of any fripperies, the corridor stretched in four directions. The sound of the demon’s retreating footsteps echoed throughout, coming at them from everywhere.
“Where are we?” he snapped to Talent.
“Cargo level, I’d say.”
Winston tossed his hat aside. He’d left his walking stick somewhere on deck and had only the gun for protection. “Divide and conquer. There are two main cargo holds. You take the fore, and I’ll take the aft.”
“I’ll take aft.” Talent flashed a grin. “It’s farther away and I’m faster, human.”
They both knew the demon more likely had fled aft—being as it was farther away. Thus it was more dangerous. As Win hadn’t the time to argue, he let it go.
“I’ll give you that one.” He nodded toward the dark stretch of hall. “Go then. We meet in the center.”
Talent ran off without another word. Taking a deep breath, Winston did the same, going about twenty feet before he encountered the first cargo hold entrance. The door hung wide open. A sign of entry? Or a diversion?
Inside was a cavernous space, cool and slightly damp. Far above, iron beams, painted a dull red, ran along the ceiling like the ribs of Jonah’s whale. Towers of crates, lashed down by thick hemp netting, made a tight maze ideal for hiding.
“Perfect,” he muttered, keeping his back to the wall as he entered with his gun pointed down but at the ready.
Careful to keep his step light and silent, Winston moved to the first crate. Being deep in the bowels of the ship, the hum of the engines was immense and enough to vibrate his bones. Farther in he went, on a bloody wild goose chase, he feared. Something creaked and he tensed. Puddles of yellow electric light from the overhead lamps were far and few, leaving too many corners for darkness to dwell.
The heaviness of the gun in Winston’s hand brought to mind another time. Of a foul alleyway, filled with fog and death. He’d