Shadowdance by Kristen Callihan Page A

the surge of well-being and the sharp tingle as her blood quickened. Her lips closed over hard muscle and warm skin. Talent grunted, his fingers gripping her hair and his heart pounding hard enough for her to hear. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her nipples tightened. Heat flooded her limbs, swirling low in her belly as she lapped at his blood. What was she doing? She ought to be repulsed, yet the flavor of him teased her tongue, delicious, then fading away an instant later. She wanted more. Was this why they’d kept him? Taken his blood, one after the other? The thought slammed into her, cold and sharp. She froze, her lips just touching his skin.
    Against her Talent shivered, his hard body tensing as his breathing increased. Agitated. Holding it back by force.
    This was wrong. She should not be using him in this way. And yet he’d offered. Mary couldn’t account for it. Regardless, she eased back, her lips brushing his shoulder in a manner that was far too close to a kiss for her comfort. He resisted for a moment, as though he thought she needed more. But then he let her go.
    Mary felt no pain as she sat up and lowered her gaze to her lap. No pain, but a thick, hot press of embarrassment. Silence descended between them, smothering and unnerving. Then he cleared his throat, and his deep voice swept over her. “Better?”
    Yes. And no. She’d healed. But she’d been in his arms, had taken sustenance. So very intimate. And with
him
.
    She risked a glance and found Talent stone-faced as usual. Only his eyes held any curiosity.
    “I’ve never heard of blood being able to heal,” she said.
    Talent blinked. “It isn’t usual.” He looked away, and the weak alleyway light cast his face in shadows. “In truth, I don’t know of another’s blood that can.”
    “How long have you known?”
    His massive shoulder, now healed, lifted. “Long enough.” The corner of his mouth curled a touch, a secretive sort of smile. “You’ve heard of Ian Ranulf’s salve?”
    Mary had. The ointment, made by Ian’s housekeeper, had extraordinary healing properties. Daisy went on and on about how it mended serious injuries so well. They’d used it on Winston Lane after a werewolf had attacked him.
    At her nod, Talent’s smile twitched. “My blood is in it. Ian thinks Tuttle makes it. But I do. Tuttle won’t say a thing because the household reveres her for the skill.”
    “Why haven’t you told Ian?”
    Again his shoulder lifted. “Didn’t trust him in the beginning.”
    Mary remembered her first days with Lucien. She’d feared letting anyone in. Feared that her good fortune would end, simply from the act of accepting another person’s care. She didn’t know what Talent’s early life had been like, but it could not have been any better than hers.
    Talent’s voice grew flat and impersonal, his eyes on the cobbles beneath them. “Later… Well, I didn’t want to explain why I’d kept it a secret.”
    She knew Jack Talent hated the idea of disappointing Ian Ranulf.
    “And it’s not something I want anyone to know…” Talent stiffened, his expression hardening, and Mary realized that he hadn’t meant to voice that particular thought.
    “By Adam’s touch, I swear that I won’t tell a soul.” As a GIM, it was the most sacred oath she could make.
    He nodded awkwardly, then his attention abruptly turned to the corpses strewn about the narrow space. Mary hadn’t forgotten about them, precisely, but was glad to study them now. On shaking limbs she stood, and was almost up when Talent hauled her the rest of the way with a firm grasp at her elbow. He let her go immediately, brusque once more as he stepped closer to a crawler.
    “Looks familiar, does he not?”
    She glanced down at the crawler. “It’s Mr. Pierce.”
    “Mmm.” Talent peered closely. “The real one. Or what’s bloody left of him.”
    Pierce’s limbs were composed of both gold and flesh. The flesh was rotting and falling away in places,