by Bec McMaster
The prince consort nodded and Maitland strode past Lynch, his pale gaze fired with ambition.
“It’s good to see a man so enthusiastic about his task,” the prince consort said.
“He needs the head start. Is that all you wished of me? I have work to do.”
“No doubt,” the prince consort replied. “The Falcone attack?”
The way he said the words, as if testing them, made Lynch alert. The prince consort wasn’t the only one with an interested gleam in his eyes. Each of the Council had stilled, resembling a painting of heightened anticipation.
Or fear.
“I believe both the Falcone and Haversham cases to be connected. I have no information on the agent that drove them into bloodlust, but witness statements and my own conclusions draw a parallel between them.”
“So it’s true?” the flame-haired Duchess of Casavian murmured. “They were both in a state of uncontrollable bloodlust?”
“They acted as if the Fade were upon them,” he replied. “However, both their CV counts came in quite low. I believe something exacerbated the condition.”
“Reports state that your hand killed Falcone,” the prince consort stated. “He was a distant cousin of mine.”
“He’d slaughtered his entire household. I had no choice. If he got loose in the city, we’d be awash in panic-fueled riots this morning.”
The prince consort dropped his gaze. With relations between the Echelon and the working classes as they were, it wouldn’t take much to set off a riot and he knew it.
“I want a report on the case,” the prince consort demanded. “Mercury must be your priority, but I can’t allow this madness to become an epidemic. You don’t think it some disease that afflicts blue bloods, do you?”
“No.” He’d considered that. “The attacks came on too swiftly. By all accounts, Lord Haversham enjoyed a night at the opera with his consort before ripping her to pieces. There were no symptoms of disease, no sign that he was out of sorts. I believe it to be influenced by some sort of toxin or poison, though I have no conclusive evidence.”
“You’ll find it.”
“I will.”
Both men slowly nodded at each other.
“Then you’re dismissed. I want your report by tomorrow morning.”
“As you wish.”
Seven
Fire burned in a barrel on the street corner, though not even a single soul gathered around it. Night had fallen and with it the brutal choke of martial law. Metaljackets prowled the city in troops, their iron-booted feet ringing on distant cobbles.
Lynch ignored the biting cold, striding through the night with his cloak swirling around his ankles. Three nights with no sign of Mercury. After the council meeting, he’d increased the flood of Nighthawks he had on the streets to counteract the sea of Coldrush Guards. A part of him was almost thankful that Mercury had gone to ground. He’d rather cut his own throat than see the woman in Maitland’s hands.
Hearing the heavy tread of a metaljacket legion nearby, Lynch cursed under his breath. Grabbing hold of the edge of a drainpipe, he hauled himself up, hand over hand, onto the roof of the nearest house. The vantage gave him a good view of the city and would keep him hidden from most eyes. He didn’t want Maitland breathing down his neck, trying to find out what leads Lynch had on Mercury.
No doubt there’d be one or two Nighthawks who reported back to the Council or even Maitland; that was the way of the world. But if they hoped to find anything in the guild, they’d be sorely mistaken. He kept everything important in his head, where no one could decipher it.
Hurrying across the rooftops, he saw the wall of the enclaves looming ahead. The last time he’d been here, he’d had his whole world shaken by a slip of a woman in a mask. Desire ran its smoky hand through him. How he burned. He wanted her desperately, wanted to get his hands on her and exact his revenge.
Leaping off the roof, he landed lightly in the street and started toward the gatehouse. A heavy-set guard with the sleeves cut off his vest stepped forward, a dark look in his eye. “Here now, you ain’t s’posed to be out at night—”
Lynch opened his cloak, flashing the stark black leather of his body armor.
The man bowed, mutiny flashing in his eyes before his lowered gaze hid it. “My apologies, me lord—”
“I’m not a lord.” Lynch stepped past him, toward the gatehouse. “I need access to your records.”
At that the guard’s head shot up. “Now, sir, I ain’t s’posed to give that without Council orders.”
Lynch stared at him. “The key,” he said softly.
Lips thinning, the guard muttered under his breath and looked around. “I don’t want no trouble from this.” He dragged a key chain over his head and held it out flat, in his palm.
Lynch took it and turned toward the gatehouse. “I was never here.”
Inside the gatehouse, the stench of stale coffee and long congealed ham struck him. The room was dark but he traversed the shadows easily until he reached into his pocket and struck the flare stick he carried with him.
The records chamber was just past the main room. It was a long room, filled with filing cabinets. Inside each were files, all of them listing names, descriptions, and each mech’s serial number along with a grainy photograph. Lynch ignored the men’s files and stopped in front of the women’s. He discarded the flare stick on top of the filing cabinet, then unlocked the first drawer.
By law, each mech had to be registered with the city. Mercury would be in here somewhere. All he needed was to find a woman of around 5’8” with an enhancement to her left hand. A specialty order, fitted with blade and needle, and no doubt more.
Then he would have her.
If only to figure out what to do with her.
* * *
The door to Lynch’s inner sanctum was locked.
Rosalind glanced at the door to the hallway as her fingers meticulously folded a letter and sealed it inside its envelope. There’d been no sign of Lynch for the last two days. The room reeked of his presence; the maelstrom of untidy paperwork, a brass spectrometer in the corner for his CV count, the liquor stand with its vile flasks of blood, and that ever-damning map on the wall, but the man was as elusive as the wind.
She didn’t know if that were blessing or curse. While it had given her ample time to search through his papers for word of her brother—or even the mechs—frustration filled her.
The part of her that played at Mercury—that dangerous, thrill-seeking part—itched over her skin like a hair shirt. She was growing restless with the inactivity. Forced to keep her head down due to Lynch’s increased efforts to find Mercury, she had sat at home each night playing at the good widow. Without him here during the day, there wasn’t even the challenge of matching wits with him.
Rosalind put aside the pair of letters she’d been preparing and crossed to the window, tapping the letter opener against her skirts. Late afternoon sunshine struggled through the gray clouds, washing the world with a melancholy tint.
She lasted barely a minute. Slowly her head turned toward the door to Lynch’s private study. There’d been no mention of Jeremy here, but perhaps she hadn’t looked hard enough?
Or perhaps she was simply that restless.
The guild was quiet this time of the day, most of the Nighthawks seeking their beds in preparation for the night ahead. Rosalind crossed to the door and pressed her ear against it. Lynch’s rooms were accessible through his private study only, so there was no risk of him entering through that door. Her fingertips twitched and with one last glance around, she eased the letter opener inside the lock.
The thin stiletto tip rasped over iron. Rosalind cocked her head and listened to each click, feeling her way like a blind man with a whore. The tip caught and she held her breath, easing it, carefully, carefully…
A click.
The lock tumbled open.
A shiver ran down her spine and she licked her lips with one last look at the door to the hall
way. The rush of heat that swept through her veins was almost dizzying.
Moving swiftly, she slipped inside. The room was dark, the heavy swag curtains drawn over the casings. Rosalind dragged one of them back and brightness spilled into the room, dust motes swirling through the stark spotlight that flood-lit the Turkish rug.
As her eyes adjusted, she glanced around, absently flipping the letter opener over and under her fingers. Lynch’s private study was larger than she’d expected from the size of her study outside. She had to move quickly, yet despite her resolve, her gaze was drawn directly to the door on the other side of the room. His bedchambers. Curiosity bit at her. She knew he wasn’t there. He never slept, it seemed. The lock to his rooms tempted her but that was surely madness.
Don’t. Rosalind closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling that same restless urge sweep over her.
Sliding the letter opener between her breasts and into the stiff-boned fabric of her corset, she hurried to the other window and wrenched the curtains back, forcing herself not to think. He would scent her in here surely, but she could explain that away, protesting an unlocked door and the desire to tidy things up a bit for him. After the ruthless way she’d filed his paperwork in her study, he’d believe her.
But the trace of her scent in his private rooms could not be explained away.
Why, sir, I wanted to see where you sleep—if you ever do…to see your bed, your sheets, your coat discarded over a chair. To touch the fine fabrics of his cloak and breeches, and run her fingers over the slick leather of his body armor.
To leave Mercury’s mask in the center of his pillow.
Rosalind bit back a nervous laugh. She didn’t dare. The thought was foolish—stupid. But the idea made her skin tingle.
Keep your mind on the job. The smile on her lips died and she forced herself to remember the way Balfour had taught her to discipline herself as a child. Every last flicker of humor vanished and she hurried to Lynch’s desk.
The monstrosity dominated the room, smothered in piles of paperwork. Honestly, the man had not met a piece of paper he could part with, though she’d swiftly learned that he could set hands on anything he wanted within a minute. Sometimes she found herself shifting things just to aggravate him—another unnatural urge. She shouldn’t be playing such games, but she couldn’t help herself.
Running her gaze over each sheet of paper, Rosalind rifled through the piles on his desk. The range of subjects fascinated her: scientific theories, what appeared to be treatises on rare plants and distillations of poisons, beautiful watercolor leaflets of exotic blooms she’d never even heard of, and anatomy sketches that would have made Ingrid feel ill just to look at.
There was, however, nothing on his desk that had anything to do with his work.
Rosalind tapped her fingers on the mahogany. An orchid dozed on the windowsill, its bonneted white head dripping with a florid pink tongue. She began to truly look around. One wall was nothing but bookshelves and Rosalind stepped closer.
“What type of books would you read?” The tips of her gloves rustled over the linen-bound spines and Rosalind’s eyes tracked the titles.
Dull, dry scientific treatises. More plants. Dusty monologues of foreign places and ancient wars. An entire shelf dedicated to the Chinese Empire—that would be an interest in his blue blood origins, she presumed. And at the far end an entire wall of mysteries. How predictable. A smile touched her lips and she dragged one out, examining the cover. No doubt he solved the mystery a good ten chapters before the protagonist.
Sensation crawled across the back of her neck, lifting the hairs there. Rosalind’s fingers froze on the book. She knew, without looking around, that he was watching her.
The restless urge slid through her veins like molten honey, the thrill of being caught. Her lips parted and she eased the book back between its neighbors, listening for any betraying sound from him, to try and place him in the room.
There was none.
Rosalind turned slowly, pressing her back to the bookshelf. Lynch leaned against the door to her study, his arms crossed over his broad chest and his eyes narrowed with a considering expression. She couldn’t read him. Her blood fired at the thought, urging her to run, to fight, but she forced it down, lifting her eyes to his.
“I do believe that this is my study,” he said in a cool, emotionless tone. “The door of which was locked this morning.”
“You must be mistaken,” she replied. “The knob turned in my hand the first time.”
Not even a hint of doubt flickered on his face. “You often test my…doorknobs?” Easing away from the door, he started to shrug out of his coat. The stark black velvet slid from his shoulders, revealing a crisp white shirt that dazzled her for a moment. Braces rode over his powerful chest, tugging the shirt taut against his shoulders.
With a careless toss, he discarded the beautiful coat over a dusty armchair strewn with newspapers. Rosalind’s gaze followed it for a moment, her lips thinning. “Locked doors make for tempting targets.” Picking up his coat, she crossed to the hatstand by the door, her gloved hands kneading the luxurious velvet. There was no body heat in the soft folds. His skin would be cool, she thought, like smooth silk. “And I’ve sorted all of the papers in my study.”
“Your study?” His brow arched.
She ignored the gibe, smoothing out the folds in his coat with absent fingers. “I wanted to tidy up in here.”
“Destroy my carefully disordered sanctum, you mean?”
A smile edged over her lips. “I’m a woman, it’s what I do.”
“If I wanted someone manipulating my life, I’d have married.” Shaking his head, he crossed to the liquor stand near the window.
“If you learned some charm, you might have found someone willing to take on such a role.” She eyed the flask in his hand. Blood. She’d seen the way the thirst for it fired Balfour’s eyes, and the other blue bloods’ around him. Humanity drained away, leaving them little more than monsters, their eyes flooded with a demonic black.
Lynch poured himself a measured shot and threw it back with cool efficiency. Rosa couldn’t look away. His throat muscles worked, the fingers of his hand curling around the glass in a betraying motion. Then he slammed the glass down and swiftly capped the flask.
Barely enough to keep his hunger at bay. Yet he turned as if the action had never occurred, dragging at the crisp white cravat at his throat with an absent scowl on his face.
Some semblance of her discomfort must have shown. He paused before his desk, his shirt open at the throat and the cravat dangling from his fingers. “My apologies. I didn’t think to restrain myself.”
Rosalind forced herself to stir. “You never have before. I don’t see the point now.”
With a guarded look, he tossed the cravat on the desk. “I’ve restrained myself greatly.” Resting against the desk, he crossed his arms once more, a familiar pose. “Tell me… Did you find anything of interest?”
“Interest?”
“When you were rifling through my things.”
For a moment she thought he’d caught her out. Then she realized that there were faint creases at the corner of his gray eyes and just a hint of a smile edging his harsh lips. Her heart started beating again, thundering in her veins.
And she liked the feeling.
“There were many things of interest,” Rosalind said, circling the desk behind him. His head turned to the side then stopped, and she knew he was tracking her by sound now. His thick dark hair was cut brutally short, barely edging against the stiff starched cut of his collar. Rosalind eyed the broad span of his shoulders. “You’re an interesting man.”
“Yet you’re afraid of me,” he murmured.
“No, I’m not—”
“I can sense it. In your scent, in your voice, the soft catch of your breath.” He looked over his shoulder then, his gaze smoky. “You cannot hide anything from me, Mrs. Marberry.”
Lie. She smiled and kept moving, her skirts swishing
against her legs. “Mrs. Marberry?” she mocked. “I wonder why you call me that at times.”
He was good. His body didn’t even stiffen, his eyes watching her dangerously. “It is your name,” he reminded her, in that rough-as-velvet voice.
Rosalind edged closer. Dangerous. So dangerous. But that old thrill was there again, tempting her to madness. She trailed her fingers across the desk, close to his thigh. “I like it when you call me Rosa.”
This time she called his bluff. The black breeches tightened over his thighs minutely. Rosalind’s gaze lifted and she smiled up at him.
Lynch stared back, his body unnaturally still. The stillness of a predator, eyeing its prey. The bunching of muscle, the shortness of breath. Rosalind took another step and her skirts brushed innocuously against his calves.
“Why did you come in here?” he asked.
“To drive you mad.” Shock drove his gaze to hers and Rosalind’s smile grew. “With your paperwork,” she elaborated. “I wanted to put it all away while you weren’t here. You have an obsession with paper.”
“Some might argue that so do you.”
“I like things to be tidy.”
“I like things to be where I put them,” he replied, a slight hint of huskiness in his voice.
She was slowly coming to understand him. Though desire roughened his voice, he’d not make a single move toward her.
Their gazes met. All of a sudden she could remember the cool exhale of his breath against her throat and the feel of his fingers cupping her arse. A part of her wanted to shatter that icy control, to drive him panting to the edge of desire, the way she’d done in the enclaves.
A troubling thought.
Rosalind graced him with a smile to hide her inner turmoil and turned away, the hem of her skirts swishing over his boots. The smile slid off her face as soon as her back was turned.
“How is Garrett this morning?” she asked, pretending that nothing had just happened.
“Recovering.” Behind her, Lynch let out a low exhale she almost didn’t hear. “Thank goodness. I thought for a moment…” His voice trailed off, then strengthened. “But Doctor Gibson tells me he should recover, if somewhat more slowly than usual.”
