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soul stirred as he came upon Nelson’s Column. There he would leave the body, just as he had all the others. But as he moved closer, and the moonlight illuminated the spot before the plinth, his breath stopped and his blood stilled. A body already lay there.

Chapter Two

    I t was inevitable that Jack be called into headquarters. The Bishop of Charing Cross had struck the night before. Murder was nothing new in London. Strange ones of a public nature, however, were another matter. Jack had been the regulator in charge of this particular case for a year now, a blight on his otherwise stellar record. This time a shifter had been murdered. As one of five—make that four now—known shifters living in London, he took it personally. Having intimate knowledge of certain facts, Jack was also unnerved by this new murder. Deeply. And he wanted answers.
    Cool shadows slid over him as he strode down the long, echoing corridor that led from the SOS common rooms to the main meeting area. Headquarters was full of regulators updating their intelligence before going out. He did not like being around them, or anyone. Not that he had to worry on that account. The others steered clear of him, their eyes averted and their bodies tense. Fear he could handle, hell welcome, but pity?
    One younger agent lowered her lashes when he passed, and a growl rumbled in his throat. She started and hurried off. Rightly so. No telling what sort of beast would break free should he lose his temper. Not even he knew. That was the way of a shifter, not owned by a single monster but possessed by all. He was everything, and he was nothing in particular. In truth, being a regulator was the 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 the guard mean by “they”? His meeting was to be with the director. Who the bloody devil would be here—
    Her scent slammed into him like a punch. And what little equanimity he’d maintained flew out the door. Oh, no, no, no… they wouldn’t dare. He eyed the inner 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 on time. Excellent. Let us proceed.” His clipped voice was unusually animated, as if he knew Jack’s displeasure at the unexpected third person in the room and reveled in it. Which wouldn’t be surprising. Wilde loved to keep regulators on their 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 a perfect replica of Botticelli’s Venus, and her body… no, hewouldn’t think about that. It was one rule he refused to break. He never, ever, thought too long on Mary Chase.
    Mary Chase would have liked to think that, after years of being on the receiving end of Jack Talent’s hateful glare, she’d be immune to it by now. Unfortunately it still worked through her flesh like a lure, hooking in tight and tugging at something deep within her. One look and she wanted to jump from her chair and hit him. However, knowing that he found her presence bothersome gave her some small satisfaction.
    He stood in the doorway, filling it up, poised for a fight like an avenging angel of Old Testament wrath. Over the last year Talent had reached his physical prime, shooting up well past an already impressive six feet, and adding what looked like twenty pounds of hard-packed muscle to his frame. It was as if nature had given him the outer shell he needed to protect himself from all comers. The change was unnerving, as the man had been intimidating enough before, mainly due to the sheer strength of his