by Bec McMaster
Lynch had created the Nighthawks forty years ago, and in all that time there’d never been a thought given to succession. Lynch had always seemed invulnerable—until he’d met Rosa, the devilish revolutionary who’d stolen his heart and set his feet on a new path.
“No objections?”
Silence greeted the room.
“Moving on, then.” Garrett briskly placed the letter beside him. “Matters of importance include Lady Walters’s missing diamonds, a murder in Bethnal Green, and some sort of rumors about fighting in the Pits…” His voice droned on and Perry found herself only half listening, which was unusual.
She’d known this new life she’d found wouldn’t last as soon as she’d read that the Moncrieff had been exiled for ten years. This year made only nine, which meant the prince consort had recalled him for some reason—and not only recalled him, but offered him a seat on the Council of Dukes who ruled the city.
Such a position was an honor. What the devil had Moncrieff done for the prince consort to reward him as such? And what was she going to do?
Everyone thought Octavia was dead, murdered by the Moncrieff’s own hand and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. She’d made sure of that—the blood that had washed his bedroom left little doubt that someone had died there.
The only person who might suspect she was alive would be the Moncrieff himself.
Shock was starting to wear off. She’d hoped their paths wouldn’t cross, but she knew him too well. Now that he was back in London he’d be looking for her, trying to read a trail that was nearly ten years old. With luck, he’d never find her, but if he did…
“We also have a supposed sighting of a ghost, down at Brickbank where they’re rebuilding the draining factories.”
That jerked her out of her reverie.
Perry looked up and realized that Garrett was watching her. “What?” Was he jesting with her? Trying to see if she’d been paying attention?
“A ghost?” Byrnes asked in disbelief. “Sounds like someone’s been at the gin again.”
“A ghost sighting and two bodies,” Garrett repeated, “at the draining factory this morning.”
The enormous factories near Brickbank were where the blood gathered in the blood taxes was stored, purified, and bottled for the Echelon’s private use.
“Perry,” Garrett continued, “I want you on this, along with myself.”
He hadn’t worked with her in more than a month. If she hadn’t been trying so hard to avoid him, she’d almost suspect he’d been avoiding her too. Which was ridiculous. What had happened at the opera—the almost kiss—was likely nothing to Garrett. Flirting with women was the same as breathing for him.
“As you wish.” She let out a slow breath. This was her job. It didn’t mean anything and she could do this, pretend that there was nothing between them but friendship. She’d been doing it for years.
“Excellent.” Garrett straightened, looking around. “Nothing else?”
Byrnes glanced at her, then at Garrett. When she arched a brow at him, Byrnes gave her a tight little smile that could have meant something or nothing at all. “Nothing that would interest anyone else.” He stood and stretched like a cat. “Though I will be sorry to lose my partner.”
Perry shot him a withering glare.
“You’re not,” Garrett announced, leaning back against the sofa and staring Byrnes down. “You’re exchanging partners. I’m sending you out with a novice.”
The stretch faltered. “I work better alone. You know that.”
“You’re one of the best trackers the Nighthawks have,” Garrett replied, just as quickly. “I want some of the better novices to be paired with you at times, so they may learn.”
“They’ll slow me down.”
“Then hurry them up.”
Garrett pushed to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back and turning away from Byrnes, effectively ignoring him. Doyle and Fitz sat quietly on the opposite sofa, watching the byplay with entirely different expressions. Fitz looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and Doyle seemed to be mentally placing bets.
Doyle scratched his chin and, with a slight grunt, climbed to his feet, working out the kink in his hip. “You boys want to play cock o’ the yard, you ought to get yourselves down to the trainin’ room and work it out. The guild don’t need us fightin’ among ourselves with all this upheaval.” He paused in front of Byrnes on his way out. “My money’s on Red, just so you know.”
Byrnes gave one of those slow shrugs he was famous for. He stood and clapped Doyle on the back. “Don’t get too cozy with it, then.”
With a rough laugh, Doyle escorted him out of the room. Fitz slunk after them with an almost apologetic look at Garrett. One of the reasons he lived in the dungeons and played with clockwork weaponry was because he abhorred violence.
Perry found her feet, eyeing the door.
“Perry.”
Damn it. She froze and glanced at Garrett reluctantly. “I was going to get ready. I’ll meet you downstairs and get the boilers going on the steam coach.”
Garrett turned to face her, his hands still clasped behind himself and his eyes spearing through her. Authority suited him. “You’d tell me if you were troubled about something, wouldn’t you?”
What? Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Of course. Why would you say such a thing?”
“You seem distracted. Being distracted can get you killed, and I won’t have that.”
The flush burned hotter. Perry dug her short nails into her palms, trying to force her body to stay still. To not look guilty. “I’m fine. I shall meet you by the carriage and we can go examine the draining factory.”
Garrett nodded. He wasn’t satisfied, not nearly, she thought, but at least he didn’t push her.
Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she managed to escape from the room.
A month ago, she might have confided in him.
Three
The first draining factory loomed out of the fog like an ancient steel ruin. Fire had done what the years hadn’t yet achieved, rusting steel and destroying everything else until the main factory looked like a shell of its former self. Blackened steel spars ended halfway in the air, where the heat from the fires had sheared off the beams, and the brickwork of the enormous furnaces was pitted and choked with coal.
Five of the factories had been gutted in an attack several months ago by the humanist movement—those members of the human population who were dissatisfied with their lack of rights. That left only a single factory in use by the edge of the Thames, its smokestack belching thick, black smoke into the air.
Work on the factories had resumed almost as soon as the fires went out. The sudden shortage of blood left the Echelon bleating for more, and in response, the prince consort had decreed that rebuilding the factories was the first priority in restoring this section of London. Never mind the blackened and charred houses that had been caught in the blaze. The occupants there were only human, and working class at that.
Garrett closed the black lacquered door to the steam carriage as he stepped down. Perry had swept her driving goggles up on top of her head, the glossy black strands of her hair tumbling in disarray. Cursing under her breath, she pulled the lever that shut off the oxygen valve to the boilers and waited for the steam carriage to hiss itself into a whispered death. Little half-moons of soot stained her cheeks, a sight that almost brought a smile to his face.
She didn’t look at him. She hadn’t in over a month, not directly. As though looking at him meant she too would have to confront what had happened at the opera. The turning point in both their lives.
A sudden reckless frustration swept through him. “Here,” he said, stepping forward and offering her his arm to help her down.
“You’ve never helped me down before,” Perry said with a sudden scowl. “I know you’r
e struggling to reconcile the fact that I’m actually female, but that doesn’t suddenly make me useless. Just because I wore a dress, it doesn’t change anything.”
Swinging her legs off the driver’s seat, she slid down into the spare few inches between his body and the carriage. For a moment Garrett was tempted to step back, give her space.
Instead he stilled.
Perry realized that too late, freezing in place as she brushed her gloves off against her tight leather breeches. Slowly she lifted her head, gaslight catching the gleaming gray of her eyes. There was an inch between them at most. A single tantalizing inch that he was too aware of.
“It’s difficult to stop picturing you in that dress,” he replied, forcing his voice to stay soft. He could almost feel the heat of the hunger swimming through his eyes, threatening to drop him over the edge. “Considering how much of you it flaunted.”
“You can’t help yourself, can you? I never should have worn the dratted thing.”
Reaching up, his gloved fingers swept at the sooty rings her goggles had left on her cheeks. The motion soothed some part of him. Maybe this was what he needed. Something to ground him. “I said that you could never pass as a female, and you wanted to throw my words back in my face. You succeeded. Admirably.”
Twirling at the bottom of the stairs, the red skirts sweeping around her and the thick, luscious curls of her wig trailing over her shoulder as she shot him such a direct look he could hardly breathe all of a sudden. “Well?” she’d challenged.
That moment. The moment it all changed. Like some enormous hand reached out and closed its fingers around his heart and lungs, squeezing, forcing the breath out of him.
Garrett didn’t know how to react now. Perry had recovered flawlessly, resuming her aloof, taciturn persona as though nothing remotely unusual had occurred that night. Gone were the practiced flirtation, the smiles that lit her from within…but he couldn’t forget them. How did you forget something like that? Pretend it had never happened? Pretend that his eye wasn’t drawn to her now in a way that was distinctly masculine and not at all friend-like?
The problem was that he now knew a sensual woman existed beneath her logical, focused exterior. If she were any other woman, he would have pursued her relentlessly until he had what he wanted. But this was Perry. Someone he admired, respected, someone he’d give his life for. To cross that line meant their entire friendship—which was evolving, admittedly—would change. And then? He didn’t have a bloody clue what that would mean. But he knew it meant more than sex, more than friendship. Perry deserved nothing less—he just wasn’t certain he could give her what she wanted.
His hand dropped as he searched her gaze. His skin felt hot; no mean feat considering how cool his blood ran now that he was a blue blood. But the hunger in him had settled, comforted by her nearness. He didn’t know quite what to think about that. It wanted her, craved her, yet it gentled at the touch of her skin. She made it easier to breathe again.
Perhaps he’d been wrong to avoid her so much for the last month. Or perhaps not. He didn’t understand any of this.
“You enjoyed making me act like a fool,” Garrett murmured. “Don’t even try to deny it. And now you have to deal with the consequences.”
Her eyes suddenly gleamed. “You’re right. I did enjoy making a fool of you. The problem is that I only intended for you to act a fool for one night. Not this whole bleeding month.”
Sliding past him, leaving behind the ghostly fragrance she washed her clothes in, Perry strode toward the factory.
Garrett followed her toward the gaslights burning at the front of the factory and the people gathered there. He didn’t even understand why he’d pursued this—pushing at her, trying to elicit some sort of recognition, some sign that things had changed between them. Hell, he didn’t even know why he wanted to acknowledge that things had changed.
“You’re a fool,” he muttered to himself under his breath. What the hell did he want from her?
Far better if he kept his distance, forced their relationship back to the familiar grounds of friendship. His hands shook as he slid them into his pockets. Better for both of them.
Still, he knew he couldn’t avoid her forever. A part of him yearned for someone he could trust at his side. Fitz was the only one who knew his blood levels were high, and Garrett couldn’t confide in him. Fitz was the man to speak to if one wanted to know how to calibrate a brass spectrometer or repair a boiler pack, but when it came to dealing with personal demons, Garrett might as well be speaking another language.
And he was starting to feel lonely. He was surrounded by Nighthawks all of the time and yet forever aloof. Lynch was the only one who might have understood how that felt, but Lynch was gone now, dealing with the pressures of the dukedom and enjoying his new wife’s company. Besides…after what Garrett had done to Rosalind, Lynch barely spoke to him.
Not only had he lost Perry, but the only other man he’d counted as a true friend. And both times were his fault.
One of the men in front of the factory doors turned and half blinded Garrett with his lantern. His workman’s shirt was stained with coal and grease, and the pants he wore had seen better days. One glance at his pale face and the strain that tightened his mouth, and Garrett knew he’d been the one to find the bodies.
The man saw him, his shoulders sagging with relief. “Me lord Nighthawk. Thank the heavens.”
“I wouldn’t be thanking the heavens just yet,” Garrett murmured under his breath with a glance at the horseless carriage alighting behind his own.
The man followed his gaze and paled. The gilt-covered carriage, with its inlay of mother-of-pearl, signaled its occupant more clearly than a fanfare could.
“Looks like we’re about to receive a visit from a duke,” Garrett said. He could just make out the hawk emblem carved in gold on the side paneling, with a ruby for an eye. “Or a duke’s heir. Barrons, by the look of it.”
The heir to the Duke of Caine stepped down from the carriage, his dark eyes raking the scene. Tossing his gloves and top hat to his footmen, the young blue blood started toward Garrett with a deliberateness of purpose.
They’d met before, as Barrons’s role on the Council of Dukes was that of liaison between the Council and the Nighthawks, and he had even been counted one of Lynch’s few friends. Garrett’s dealings with him, however, had been as second-in-command of the Nighthawks. Now he walked a fine dagger’s edge. He was acting guild master, but not yet officially recognized.
As if he didn’t have enough on his mind.
“Barrons,” Garrett murmured, with a slight nod of the head that wasn’t as deep as usual. He had his own position to establish.
Faint humor stirred in the other man’s predatory gaze. “Master Reed,” Barrons replied. His bare knuckles tightened over the silver-edged handle of his sword-cane as he glanced up at the enormous building behind them. “I hear we have reports of ghosts and two bodies.”
“News travels swiftly.” Garrett had barely received the report himself.
Dark eyes flickered to his. Unreadable. “The Duke of Malloryn and I are responsible for the rebuilding of the draining factories. We can’t afford to have anything go wrong with the one draining factory still in working order.” Gesturing to Garrett to fall into place beside him, he continued, “The foreman sent a clockwork raven to Caine House as soon as he heard the news.”
I wonder if that was before or after he sent one to the Nighthawks? Garrett’s lips thinned. He liked Barrons, but the absoluteness of power that the Council wielded didn’t sit well. And they frequently meddled in affairs that belonged firmly in the Nighthawks’ jurisdiction.
“I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived at the scene myself,” Garrett replied. “If you give my men an hour or two to examine the factory, I’ll have a report directed to you.”
“You needn’t bother,” Barrons replied, with t
hat faintly mocking smile on his lips again. “I know how this works. Consider me a silent bystander. I won’t get in your way, and I won’t tamper with your evidence. I’m only here to observe.”
To observe what, though? The mystery? Or my effectiveness as commander?
“As you wish,” he replied, for he couldn’t very well insist otherwise. Ignoring Barrons, he glanced past him to the foreman who was following dutifully at their heels. “Mr. Mallory, yes?” Garrett gestured for the man to step up to his side.
“Aye, sir,” the fellow replied, doffing his cap nervously.
“Tell me, what time did you find the bodies?”
“’Twere half five, sir. I come in early, as I wanted to get the fires burning hot before the workers arrived. We been working night and day since the burning of the factories, but we have the night off on a Sunday.” A nervous glance at Barrons told Garrett all he needed to know about the man’s religious convictions.
When the Church in Rome had excommunicated them as demons, the Echelon had burned most of the churches and cathedrals and forbidden the masses from worshipping in public. Most of the working class, however, held private gatherings in secret places to worship. The more the Echelon tried to weed faith out, the more it dug its roots deep in the population.
Humans might be forced to yield to the blood taxes and their place in the social hierarchy, but they’d be damned if they’d give up their religion. Such a thing, however, was dangerous to speak about in front of a blue blood lord. Only a year ago, the prince consort had ordered ten men flayed for attending such a gathering.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Barrons murmured. As if sensing the foreman’s nervousness, he nodded toward the door. “Do you mind if I observe your men’s examinations of the bodies?”
