by Bec McMaster
"I told her we needed to take a step back and think about things rationally."
Garrett groaned and sipped his drink. "It's worse than I suspected then. She no doubt thinks you've given up on her or rejected her. Trust me. You don't want that to happen."
"Oh, shut up," he growled.
Garrett smiled. "Your mother is safe here, and I'll set Doyle to fluffing about her. There's nothing he likes more than mothering someone. She'll be drowned in vats of tea and buried in biscuits, and treated like royalty. Go tell Ingrid how you feel."
"Call me if she gets scared. She doesn't like new places. Or new people she doesn't know." Byrnes looked down at his mother as he stood and passed the baby back to Garrett. I wish you were still there. But she wasn't, and she wouldn't even notice if he wasn't here when she woke.
But Garrett was right. Someone else would.
"I will."
And he had a vampire to catch, a vampire who had just happened to attack the place where his mother was kept.
Coincidence? Byrnes didn't think so.
TWENTY-TWO
INGRID SLEPT THROUGH most of the night.
Byrnes sank into the armchair in the corner of her room and watched as the drizzle splashed against the windows.
There wasn't much he could do. Charlie and Kincaid had tried to track the vampire whilst he dealt with his mother and Ingrid, and both had returned an hour ago, claiming that the trail vanished in the sewers. The creature had glutted itself on blood at the Home then simply returned to wherever it was lurking, as if its purpose had been served.
Which made him wonder. What had been its purpose there? Anarchy? There were far more public places it could have attacked. And his mother was there. The link bothered him. The way that woman had looked at him bothered him.
Was this revenge for killing one of her vampires? Or something else?
A sharp rap came at the door, then Malloryn strode in, decked out in full opera regalia. A white silk scarf fluttered around his neck and he carried his top hat in his hand, but his gaze went immediately to the bed. "Just received word," he said, shutting the door behind him.
Byrnes tensed. The man didn't belong in here, not with Ingrid virtually unconscious. He looked up and Malloryn paused, as if aware that boundaries had been crossed.
"Long night?" the duke asked in a milder tone as he unfolded a newspaper from beneath his arm and tossed it at Byrnes. "How is she?"
"Healing," he replied. "It was... bad."
Malloryn crossed to the bed, staring down. "She's stronger than you think. There's not much she cannot survive."
"I'm aware of that." He scrunched the newspaper in his fist, his vision blanking for a second. Knowing the facts didn't make it easier to deal with, which was unusual. All he could see was— "The vampire gutted her. If I hadn't arrived in time...."
He didn't need to add anything else.
Malloryn turned to face him, his arms crossing slowly as he settled that piercing gaze on Byrnes. "This is new. I expected you to still be at each other's throats." He hesitated. "Do you think I should reassign you both? Partners with an emotional attachment don't work very well together, I've found."
Like hell. "You can try, but I'm not going anywhere." The words were soft with menace, and even he heard them. Byrnes shut his eyes, trying to get a handle on his emotions. The hunger whispered through his veins, resenting the other man's presence in Ingrid's bedroom. Possessive. Demanding. Looked like his decision had been made, and there was no point in fighting it anymore. "If she gets hurt again...."
"You're not the type of man who'd never forgive himself."
"You don't know me." He looked up. "But you're right. I'd never forgive you."
Malloryn's gaze narrowed to slits, and he seemed to be thinking about whether he'd want Byrnes as an enemy. "Then we shall leave the arrangement as it is. You're clearly not thinking straight. If I try and pair you with someone else, you'll be distracted and worrying about Ingrid. That might prove disastrous. I want you focused on the mission, Byrnes." For a moment incredulousness showed in the man's expression. "I used to think you a man after my own heart."
"What? That I had none? No man is invulnerable, I think. Even you might fall prey to the gentler emotions."
Malloryn didn't quite flinch but he turned toward the window, dragging the silk scarf from around his throat.
And suddenly Byrnes understood. "Who was she?"
"No one that you know," the Duke replied, peering out into the cold blustery night. "Take a look at the paper."
Confession time dismissed. Byrnes unfolded it. The headline screamed bold. Bloody Rampage At Nursing Home! Blue Bloods on the Loose!
"Hell," he said.
"That pretty much sums it up." Malloryn balled the scarf in his hands, looking vexed. "Someone's been busy at the printing presses all night. There was a newspaper lad right outside the opera." He cursed under his breath. "I thought we'd have some sort of lead by now. Whoever is doing this has to leave a trace somewhere. Somehow. They can't just simply vanish."
"Ava said that Ulbricht ordered the Doeppler orbs. We needed to run it by you, but we'd like to... ask him a few questions."
"Done," Malloryn replied, then frowned. "This doesn't feel like Ulbricht's style, however. It bothers me."
"I agree."
Malloryn looked at him as though he'd done something interesting. "Oh?"
"I think there's more to this than there seems. Every crime scene has been flawless. No clues, no trail to follow, or if there is one, it vanishes. Until the Venetian Gardens, where quite conveniently there is a Doeppler orb left behind. I've spoken to Ava—she said that Ingrid was unsettled outside Hayes's shop. She asked if Ava could smell something, which makes me believe that the vampire was watching the orb-maker, as if it expected us to go there."
Malloryn stared into space. "That seems quite a stretch."
"I'm an investigator. Putting impossible pieces together is what I do. Let's also look at the black flag, and the '0' that is the only blemish on an otherwise clueless case. Whoever is doing this wanted us to know that the Sons of Gilead had something to do with it. Why else would they paint those symbols? Why else would Echelon lords be walking around with it tattooed on their wrists? They're not hiding the symbols, not nearly well enough. So either they are ridiculously bold and stupid, or someone is setting them up."
"I thought there was some credence to the theory that some killers leave behind calling cards of some sort. Are the flag and symbol not just that?"
"Usually it's something bloodier—the same signature kill stroke. I just have this gut feeling...."
"Go on," the duke replied.
"Something's wrong. The vampire knew where to go. It stalked through an entire borough full of potential targets before choosing that one building in Clerkenwell, one with a connection to me."
"Byrnes."
"It followed me there when I was visiting my mother. It had to have. But why attack now? Why me? What the hell drove it there? Is someone watching us? Was it someone from Ulbricht's ball? There's coincidence, and then there's too many coincidences."
Malloryn looked disturbed. "That's impossible. Although... the vampire does almost seem as though it's taken a particular interest in you. Perhaps it knows you killed its... friend."
"Not the vampire," Ingrid whispered, and both of them shot to the bed.
"Ingrid," Byrnes said, his voice suffused with relief. "You're awake?"
She blinked sleepy eyes at him, frowning grumpily. Her hair was a mess. "Someone keeps talking. How could I possibly sleep through all of that?"
Byrnes curled her hand in his and squeezed it. She was alive and awake, and he hadn't realized until this moment how on edge he'd been.
"What did you mean about the vampire?" Malloryn pressed.
Dark shadows haunted Ingrid's eyes. "The woman. The woman's controlling the vampire somehow. And she's interested in Byrnes."
"That's impossible," Malloryn stated flatly.
"You keep using that word," Ingrid said with a yawn. "Right now, I believe that anything is possible."
"The flute." Byrnes chewed the thought over. "I think Ingrid's right. I'd never believe it if I hadn't seen it for myself now, but this is twice we've encountered a vampire that doesn't simply go off on a killing spree until it's cut down. No vampire has ever walked past dozens of potential victims like that. It should have started killing the second it came into the streets, unless it was being controlled. These attacks are focused and planned. I think it's trained, somehow, which is the craziest thing I've ever said, but I cannot come up with another reason. And why is Ulbricht's mistress interested in me?"
"You killed her vampire, and tracked Ulbricht to his meeting. Maybe she wants revenge? Maybe she’s impressed? I don't think she's his mistress either." Ingrid was fighting a losing battle against sleep. "And it was wearing some sort of collar too, now that I think of it. One that shocked me as soon as I touched it."
They had suspected that someone was pulling the strings of the Sons of Gilead, after all. Who better than a woman in control of one of its leading members?
"Maybe Ulbricht's not the danger?" he mused. "Maybe he's the distraction?"
"I'll see if any of my networks have anything," Malloryn said, watching Ingrid. "Byrnes, tomorrow you can work with Kincaid." Byrnes looked up sharply, but Malloryn held a hand up. "Until Ingrid is on her feet."
"I'm fine, Your Grace," she said stubbornly, pushing up onto her hands and looking surprised to find that they trembled.
Byrnes eased her back down. "No, you're not. And don't look at me like that. The sooner you get enough rest, the sooner you'll be on your feet. You're not ready. You'll only slow me down, and I need you at your best."
If looks could kill....
"I'll leave you to it," Malloryn murmured, and slipped through the door as if the sudden intimacy bothered him.
"I'm not an invalid," Ingrid growled the moment the door was shut.
Byrnes dragged the armchair toward the bed, then slumped into it. "Do we have to argue about this?"
"You're the one who started it!"
"Ingrid, I had to stuff your guts back into your stomach and hope to hell that you'd heal. There was nothing I could do. None of my rudimentary on-scene training...." Byrnes swore, looking away as the vision of it flashed before his eyes, taking him back to that moment. "I thought you were going to die." He broke off as that panicky feeling speared through him again. Only clasping his hands together helped. He could force the tremble down. "I don't think I could bear it, to see you hurt again so badly."
When he looked up, her eyes were wide and startled. All of her anger had leeched out of her and she turned her gaze to the ceiling, looking troubled. Candlelight warmed her features.
"I thought I was going to die too," she admitted in a quiet voice. "Just for a moment."
He swallowed the sudden fierce lump in his throat. "I'm not cut out for this."
Ingrid looked at him, but she didn't say anything.
Byrnes reached out slowly to curl her hand into his. Ingrid looked at it, then squeezed back gently. He sighed.
"Sleep," he told her. "You're safe now, and all bandaged up. You need to rest. And then you can work with me again."
An uncomfortable look crossed her face. "Promise you'll watch over me while I sleep?" Ingrid whispered, her eyelashes fluttering. "I can't keep fighting the loupe, and it makes me feel vulnerable."
Byrnes folded himself into the seat by her bed. "Promise."
And just like that, she stopped fighting the loupe and her own stubborn nature and her lashes fluttered shut.
TWENTY-THREE
INGRID WOKE because someone was trying to wear a rut in her floorboards.
Byrnes. She'd woken several times since the vampire tore her apart, and every time he'd been at her side in a heartbeat, demanding to know if she was all right, if she was in pain, hungry... what?
Ingrid didn't know what to make of it. She wasn't used to being fussed over, and if she were being honest with herself, Byrnes was fussing. He'd even fed her soup. Soup! And her favorite too.
How he knew this.... She suspected Rosa’s help, which meant a conspiracy against her, but then again, who knew when it came to Byrnes? He was always watching. Always filing little pieces of information away in that brain of his.
It left her feeling distinctly uncertain about the way things were between them. They'd agreed, damn it. They weren't going to take that step forward, but it seemed that she'd missed some vital change of mind.
“Good morning,” he said.
"Still here?" she asked, tossing back the covers and trying to stand.
She barely had a chance to do so before his lean body was pressed against her own, gently easing her arm around his shoulders as her legs wobbled.
"Byrnes.” Her exasperation showed. “I’m not an invalid.”
He sat them on the edge of the bed with his arm around her waist. "You've barely gotten your feet back under you. I'm not letting you out of bed until you're completely healed."
"I need some privacy, Byrnes."
"You can barely stand—"
"Byrnes," she growled, deep in her throat.
"Five minutes," he finally said, and then left the room so that she could take care of the necessities and then scrub her teeth.
Ingrid paused in front of the mirror, then rolled up her nightshirt, tentatively untying the bandages there. Smooth skin met her gaze. No sign of the vampire's attack. She touched the area lightly. "You survived," she whispered, meeting her eyes in the mirror. It didn't feel like it though. Not deep inside, where a part of her had met her own mortality head-on. She'd always been invincible. Or felt like it.
But this was the first time she’d borne such a grievous injury.
It left her feeling vulnerable in more ways than one, and Byrnes wasn’t helping the situation. How could she deal with his sudden change of heart? What did it mean?
"Knock, knock," Byrnes called, and Ingrid jumped.
"I'm done," she called, scurrying back to her bed and slipping under the covers.
He entered briskly, carrying a tray. "I brought you breakfast," he said, as though she couldn't smell the beefsteak. "Jack told me you're not worth dealing with before you've eaten, after one of these episodes."
"I'm not hungry."
"Actually he warned me not to deal with you before then." Byrnes lifted the silver tureen off the self-heating platter. Steam wafted off it, and the smell hit her like a punch to the gut. Her stomach chose that moment to mimic the sound of whales mating. Loudly. Curse him.
"Pity," Byrnes said, wafting the steam toward her with the most evil smile she'd ever seen. "Herbert went to a lot of trouble to cook this up for you. Now what am I supposed to do with it? Hmm, there was this scrawny young cat out the back. I suppose I can just feed it to her."
Ingrid ground her teeth together. "There are times when I'm tempted to do... something to you."
Byrnes swung into the chair beside her bed, still fanning the steam her way. "Oh? Do tell? Something... wicked? Something involving the pair of us getting naked? Again?"
"Something permanent," she growled, and then took the plate off him, and the knife and fork. If she didn't eat then she was going to be too weak to get out of bed. It had nothing to do with him getting the better of her, and then acting all smug about it.
Besides, it felt good to have the fork in her hand.
Byrnes very subtly moved his leg out of the way when she glanced at it. Perhaps it was the way that her fingers curled around the fork? Or maybe the expression on her face?
"Just remember," he warned in a mild tone, "you like those bits of me."
"Do I? I find I can't quite recall why at the moment." Which was a blatant lie. She very much liked those bits of him, and her memory chose that moment to remind her in precise detail about what those bits looked like. What they felt like against her skin.... Ingrid smothered a groan, and stabbed the
beefsteak instead.
It wasn't fair. Here she was trying to play by the rules that he'd invented—the rules that said that they couldn't do this—and he was doing his level best to dash all of her best defenses. Ingrid shoved a piece of steak in her mouth. She didn't understand any of it. She chewed thoughtfully. She needed Jack to talk to.
"Why are you here? Why are you bringing me breakfast? And why were you even sitting by my bedside at all? Don't you have a vampire to hunt?"
"Kincaid's waiting downstairs. I just wanted to see...." He paused then, and a half dozen expressions flitted across his face before he managed to soothe his expression back into a blank mask. "What do you remember?"
"I know that you didn't like seeing me like that." Byrnes hadn't been at all himself. There'd been a frantic energy to him, as if the blue-blooded predator within him lay very close to the surface. Ingrid frowned. "And I don't think you liked Malloryn being in here."
Which was a curious memory indeed.
Byrnes flicked a piece of lint off his arm, then shifted his gaze to the window. "I'm having a slight problem," he admitted. "I know what I should do. I know why I should do it." Those blue eyes locked on hers, spearing straight through her. "But I don't want to walk away from you, and to be quite honest, I am dealing with some complex emotions at the moment."
Ingrid stared back, working her way through what he was saying. "You don't want to walk away?"
Byrnes stood abruptly and began pacing. "I don't do this, Ingrid."
"Fetch a woman breakfast, you mean?" she asked, feeling a faint warmth wash through her, as if a part of her was starting to understand. She had to admit she liked seeing him so off-balance. Byrnes was always too composed.
"That too."
Ingrid swallowed another mouthful. "Are you trying to say that you have decided that we are going to pursue this little flirtation between us?"
"It's not a flirtation," he finally told her. "Not for me. Not any longer."
She nearly dropped the fork. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, this was not it. "But I... I... you...." Nothing. She had nothing to say.
