by Bec McMaster
Garrett’s heart started pounding in his chest. He slid the shirt up his arm and eased his other shoulder within it. If Gibson saw his CV levels, he’d be required by law to report them. The doctor was a man he considered a friend, but the truth was inescapable.
“How is the autopsy coming along?” he asked mechanically, tugging the soft black undershirt closed over his chest. He had to think of a way out of this…
“I’ll have my reports in by the end of the day.” Gibson looked up, momentarily distracted. He squinted through his half-moon spectacles. “A terrible shame, truly. Those poor young girls.”
“Anything of importance you’ve discovered?”
“Only that our killer is a master with a scalpel. The hearts were removed while both girls were still alive. Miss Fortescue was sedated throughout the procedure—with chloroform, I suspect—and her breastbone was removed to get at the heart, then replaced and wired together.” Dr. Gibson frowned. “It was most peculiar. The ends of the aorta and superior vena cava were in some state of healing, almost as if the murderer were performing some sort of… I don’t even know what to call it. The closest thing I’ve ever seen is when they replace a man’s lungs with bio-mech chest pumps, but everybody knows that you can’t replace a man’s heart and keep him alive. It’s impossible.”
Garrett started working on the buttons of his shirt, glancing at the spectrometer. “Any sign of the craving?”
“In Miss Fortescue, yes. The breastbone was starting to fuse back into the ribs and her CV levels were sitting in the low teens. Miss Keller was only missing for a day, so it’s too early to tell.”
“Is there—”
A sharp rap at the door preceded its opening. Lynch strode through, then faltered when he saw Garrett. Anyone else might not have noticed the hesitation, but Garrett knew him only too well. Grabbing the black leather coat that completed his uniform, he gave a clipped nod. “Your Grace.”
Lynch ignored him. “A word, Gibson?”
“We’ll finish this later,” Garrett murmured, more relieved to see his former master than Lynch would ever expect.
They locked gazes and Lynch tipped his head in the faintest of nods, his lips pressed together thinly.
The hurt of it was like an icy stab to the chest. Garrett strode past with his coat in hand and shut the door behind him. Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding. The hallway stretched out on both sides, empty and looming.
Once he’d been a trusted comrade. Now there was nothing. Not even a greeting. As if Garrett was some stranger. It ate at him, though he’d known how Lynch might react when Garrett had revealed the truth to Rosalind and begged her to sacrifice herself for Lynch.
Garrett crushed his fist closed, turning blindly down the left hallway. You earned his scorn, he told himself, trying to ignore the rising tide of darkness within him. It didn’t do a damn thing to halt the regret he felt.
With late afternoon light streaming through the windows, the corridors were empty. Most Nighthawks would be asleep, waiting for the moon to rise. That was when the city was at its most active and also the time that suited them best. The bright light of day could be harsh on a blue blood’s eyes and fair skin.
Almost four hundred Nighthawks filled the guild at times, though there were several other groups of them billeted across the city. Garrett found himself striding the halls unthinkingly, not knowing where he was going. Somewhere away from Lynch’s scorn. Somewhere he didn’t have to be quite so alone…
***
A knock at her door jerked her out of the stillness of meditation.
Peace slipped from her body like water rushing over her skin. Only Garrett knocked like that. Perry cursed under her breath. After the conversation with Rosa she’d been on edge enough for the hunger to rise in her. Her usual blood-laced tea had barely suppressed the urge, so she’d resorted to the meditation techniques Lynch had taught her.
For a woman to have such hungers was socially unacceptable. Perry had to be in control of herself at all times, especially when she was on a case and needed her head clear. Stealing a moment like this was a necessity. With all the feelings he aroused in her, Garrett would only shatter any gains she’d made.
“Come in,” she called, uncrossing her legs and stretching.
Her hard-won peace fragmented the instant Garrett strode inside her quarters. The short chestnut strands of his hair were rumpled, as though he’d raked a hand through them—or just risen from bed—and his blue eyes were hot with turmoil. It rode over the broad line of his shoulders, and each step he took radiated a predatory menace.
Her own needs spiked, driven by the hunger reflected in his body. For a moment the world was crafted of shadows, then she took a deep breath and let it spill from her. “What’s wrong?”
The expression washed from his face. She could see him visibly rein himself in, forcing the hunger back. It lingered in the tension of his jaw, but a smile touched his mouth—a meaningless, hard-edged smile. “Nothing is wrong.”
Lynch. For a moment her heart ached for two stubborn men who both refused to apologize.
He prowled her small room but saw none of it, she guessed. Perry rested her hands on her knees and watched him, waiting for him to speak. This wasn’t the first time she’d received an inappropriate visit to her bedchambers.
Garrett plucked a half-open book from the small armchair in the corner and glanced at the title. “A gothic?”
Perry uncurled herself swiftly and reached for it, but he held it high, flicking it open to where it had rested. “‘And then he tasted the breath of her, each lingering caress…’”
“Give it back,” she growled.
Turning his back, he went on reading. Perry wrapped an arm around his shoulders and threw herself forward, trying to reach it.
“‘For I love thee, Diana—’” His voice choked off as she wiggled against him, her fingertips bare inches from the book. “Christ, Perry, are you trying to strangle me?”
“Tempted to.”
The next moment, he flipped her over his shoulder onto the armchair. Her legs dangled over the back of it and she rolled, righting herself. Garrett backed away, his blue eyes dancing as he held the book up again.
The words washed over her, horribly romantic words she’d been enjoying the night before to take her mind off the day’s horrors. From his tongue, however… They shivered over her skin—tender, mocking words she’d always wished he’d say to her.
She shouldn’t begrudge him the moment. Playful times like this always took his mind off his troubles.
But it ached, just a little. Why did she have to hurt just so that he felt better?
“That’s enough,” she said quietly.
Garrett kept reading. “‘And the duke whispered in her ear, words that echoed along her spine—’”
This time Garrett was ready for her. When she leaped at him, he swept her up over his shoulder. The world upended. All she could see was the long, lean length of his back, the curve of his muscled arse, and—with a quick glance under his arm—the dratted book.
“Garrett!”
The room spun. Perry landed flat on her back on her bed with a breathless gasp. Something red flickered into view. The book. Garrett held it with negligent fingers and a watchful gleam in his eyes.
Perry snatched at it—and missed. Rolling onto her hands and knees she tried again. “Give it back!” The words came out a little choked, a little desperate.
He watched her. Then held the book out.
Perry eyed it. As soon as she realized he wasn’t going to withhold it, she snatched it from him and buried it beneath her pillow.
Garrett collapsed back on his elbows on the mattress, taking up most of her bed as if he belonged there. A dangerous thought. Dragging her knees up to her chest—not to avoid taking up space, she told herself—Perry leaned against her pillo
ws and stared back at him.
“Why are you so afraid to be a woman?” he asked finally.
She ignored him. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re going to start rumors.”
“I enjoy being with you,” he said carefully. “I don’t have to pretend with you. It’s…peaceful.”
Pretend? She looked at him sharply.
Garrett stared at the ceiling, his arms crossed beneath his head. He gave a soft sigh and she saw that the smile had faded again. This was why he was here—to talk to her.
“Do you know what Lynch once told me? He said I should be an actor on the stage. I’ve always known how to mimic people, even as a lad. Then when I became a thief for the swell mob, I had to learn to strip everything of my past from my speech and appearance. To be something I wasn’t. I still do it. Only now, I’m Garrett Reed, Master of the Guild of Nighthawks.” A harsh, breathless laugh. “Confident, in control, a man who knows how to react in every situation.”
His confidence was one of the very things she found attractive—that, and his seeming ease in his own skin. He was everything she wasn’t. Or was he? A frown touched her brow. She’d never seen him show even the slightest sign of conflict, but it was there now, in the distant gaze he leveled at the ceiling and the line of tension around his mouth.
“You don’t feel you are those things?”
He turned those dangerous blue eyes toward her and she saw the truth in them. “I feel like I’m trying to juggle a half-dozen balls, and I don’t know where they’re going to land. Byrnes, Lynch, you…the guild… That, most of all. Am I doing right by it? By the men? I keep making mistakes, and everybody keeps reminding me that I’m not Lynch—”
“Lynch made mistakes,” she cut in.
“Really?” A mocking arch of the brow. “Because I can’t seem to think of any.”
“Rarely. But you have to remember that he was in charge of the guild for forty years. He had more than enough time to perfect his leadership and learn from what he’d done wrong.”
“Then you do think I’m making mistakes?” Garrett countered.
“Some, yes.” His eyes flashed hot blue, but she held up a hand to stall him. “Byrnes, for example.”
“He’s the one who—”
“You do realize he doesn’t truly want to lead the guild?” she cut in. “He knows he’s not equipped to deal with it, nor does he particularly wish to.”
Garrett’s mouth opened and shut. “He’s made it quite clear he disagreed with the choice Lynch put before the Council.”
“Of course he did. He feels overlooked. And you reacted as if you saw a rival, when you should have been working together to sort this matter out. You give him the same work and cases you’d offer to any of the trackers, rather than using him as a trusted member of your Hand, so he resents it.”
Garrett’s teeth ground together. “He isn’t trusted.”
“That’s arrogance speaking, not the man I know you could be. Not a leader.”
A long moment of silence. “And how do you propose I reconcile this matter?”
“Give him the same work you give to any of us. Involve him in your decisions. Ask his opinion—he’s good at what he does, Garrett. You can’t ask for his respect if you can’t give him the same.”
“So this situation is my fault?”
“No. But you’re the man in charge. He’s not. You’re Master of the Nighthawks now, which means you need to be the one to act decisively in this matter, rather than giving in to the actions you’d prefer to take.”
Garrett rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sighed.
“You know I speak the truth.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” he corrected.
Perry smiled her most secretive smile.
“And Lynch?”
It was eating away at him. Perry nibbled her lip. “He’ll come around.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. He’s being stubborn and foolish. Much like someone else I know at times… But he’s not a fool.”
Garrett rolled onto his side. “When did you get to be so wise?”
“I’m always wise,” she quipped back.
Lazing on his side, he reached out and stroked her bare foot. Perry froze. The room suddenly seemed far too small.
It would be wise to pull away, but as his gaze held hers, Perry found she couldn’t move. Something about the moment seemed to draw her in. A longing she couldn’t quite disguise.
He saw it. His thumb paused beneath the arch of her foot, a long, considering moment. Black heat suffused his eyes. Full of dangerous promises.
Perry couldn’t breathe.
“Garrett?” She could feel it igniting in her too, the richness of the hunger seeping through her veins. Her vision darkened and she reached out to stroke his jaw—
Garrett turned his face away sharply and drew back with a shaky breath. “I’m sending you out with Byrnes to examine the factory again. The preliminary reports are back from the autopsy. Dr. Gibson believes the second murder occurred on-site or very close to the factory. The first girl was killed elsewhere, as suspected, and moved.”
Byrnes? Perry’s hand lowered. “Why?”
“That’s what we need to know.” He rolled to his feet, straightening his clothes.
“Not the murders. Why Byrnes? You know he and I—”
“I need a murder weapon,” he replied, speaking over the top of her. “I need you to find either the knife or scalpel that removed Miss Fortescue’s heart, or someone who saw something. And it’s about time I dealt with the press. Is there anything else?” The look he gave her might as well have been offered to a stranger. The blackness had faded from his irises.
Yes. You’re a nodcock. Her jaw locked and she glared back.
Garrett arched a brow, correctly interpreting the look. “Then I’ll see you later this afternoon.”
As he left the room, she refrained from mentioning that Byrnes wasn’t the only one he wasn’t handling very well.
She just didn’t understand why.
Eight
Byrnes and Perry caught the train to the newly renamed Wapping station, which lingered in the remnants of the Thames Tunnel. The previous tunnel had been a marvel of modern engineering, burrowing beneath the river and providing pedestrian access to Rotherhithe on the southern bank. In recent years the East London Railway Company had transformed the tunnel to carry trains, and people were taking full advantage of that fact.
Perry disembarked at the platform, striding into the crowd. The guild’s steam coach was reserved solely for the use of the guild master, so most Nighthawks had to find alternative means of transport. Garrett had offered the use of the steam coach until she’d reminded him very pointedly of that fact. A foolish victory, and one she regretted as they swam against the crowd.
“This is ridiculous,” Byrnes muttered, leading her through the streets toward the draining factory. “The men have already been over the factory with a fine-tooth comb. What does Garrett think we’re going to find?”
“Something sharp.” A murder weapon, no less.
“Perhaps if we find it, I’d best take it in hand,” Byrnes said. “Considering your current mood.”
Perry stopped in her tracks. “My mood?”
“You have that look in your eye.” Byrnes caught her arm and steered her forward. “The one that says you’d like something sharp and pointy, all the better to stick it down his throat.”
“Unfortunately, your grasp of anatomy is almost as woeful as your concept of charm. I wasn’t contemplating his throat at all.”
Byrnes laughed.
The nearest storefront had no fewer than five cages in the window, with squawking parrots, a lark, and a nightingale captured within. In these streets, one could buy almost anything. Particularly the exotic. On Sundays the street was
an open-air market, with raucous birds and monkeys for sale at every cart, fighting for space with barrows and stands, with cheapjacks selling whatever they could lay their hands on. Refreshment stalls offered apple fritters cooked while you waited. Perry had on occasion tried one, though she could only stomach a couple of mouthfuls before her cursed body rebelled against food.
Today the streets were manageable. The wreckage of the draining factories loomed ahead, with a full squadron of metaljacket guards keeping people at bay. Weak afternoon sunlight gleamed on the polished steel of the guards’ breastplates, and the polished glass of their eye slits revealed a hint of pale blue gaslight within. It looked almost eerily as if the automatons were staring back at her. Workmen scurried behind them, with scaffolding surmounting the buildings and steam-driven cranes shuffling into place with a faint hiss. Earthshakers—the armadillo-plated automatons the Echelon owned—were being used to clear the wreckage from the burned-out factories.
Factory Five loomed at the end, with soot stains showing where the fire had almost spread. It was strangely silent down here, gravel crunching beneath her boots as she and Byrnes strode toward the factory.
“So what was all that about?” Byrnes asked.
“All what?” Perry pushed her brass identity card into the keyhole. The doors to the draining factory had been keyed to the senior identity cards of all the Nighthawks while the investigation was in place.
“Reed seems a little on edge of late,” Byrnes replied, following her. “You wouldn’t happen to know the cause?”
“No.”
“How curious.” He eased the door shut with a slow squeal of the hinges. “If someone perceptive—say, someone trained to investigate people—were paying attention, it might actually seem that the strain began that night we investigated the opera.”
“Don’t tempt me to find something sharp and pointy.” A hand rested over the knife at her hip. “I’m most certainly not in the mood for your so-called humor.”
His laugh was rough and low. “So you and Reed are both on edge. The plot thickens.”
In the almost unearthly silence, the factory seemed watchful. Dull gray light streamed through the dusty windows high above, and the air was frigidly cold this close to winter. Perry took careful steps, eyeing the enormous glass vats that had once been used to store blood. The brass filtration devices beneath them lay silent now, the overhead cranes and rows of conveyor belts preternaturally still. The Echelon would be screaming for fresh blood and for this case to be solved. It wouldn’t be long before the Nighthawks’ opportunity to examine the factory vanished and the Council of Dukes demanded that the workers return to their labors.
