by Bec McMaster
"Sounds like fun," Charlie said.
"Sounds insane," Byrnes said gruffly. He hadn't wanted to risk Ingrid on such a mission, though he'd finally capitulated.
"Oh, it gets better. According to Obsidian, Balfour has files on all of us," Gemma continued. "Obsidian, Byrnes, Ingrid, and I are considered high target and dangerous. Every move we make is going to be watched by a dozen eyes. Which means Obsidian and I are going to be keeping Lord Barrons company in charming the court and taunting Balfour, while Byrnes and Ingrid are going to act as decoys. The pair of you are going to be making certain 'information-gathering' forays. Be careful and watch your backs, but your mission is primarily to draw attention."
"Don't know how Byrnes is going to cope with that," Kincaid snickered. "Being as subtle as he is."
"Bite this," Byrnes said, his teeth sinking into his knuckles.
"Ava and Kincaid are on communications. Kincaid, if Charlie needs you in the field, you're to attend him, and Ava is available to analyze any information we might find.
"Which leaves us with the rest of you." Gemma turned toward him. "Charlie's a little bit of an unknown according to Obsidian, and an expert at going about undetected, which is why I've tasked him with putting together a small team. He's chosen Herbert, Lark, and now Blade. Charlie, you and Lark will be putting in an appearance at the celebrations but you're my attendant, nothing else. Whatever you do, try not to draw attention."
"Who? Me?" He flashed her a smile.
"Yes, you."
"Cheer up, sugarplum," Kincaid said, ruffling his hair. "I'm sure you'll be able to create plenty of mayhem when Gemma lets you off the leash."
Gemma continued. "The first thing we need to do is locate where Balfour is keeping Malloryn. Then we need to extract him...."
"And then?" Byrnes asked.
"We kill Balfour," Gemma said simply.
"Murder, most excellent." Byrnes rubbed his hands together. "Please tell me I'm on the Kill Balfour team."
"You may have to wait in line," Obsidian said coldly.
Everyone looked at the former assassin.
Balfour had ordered Obsidian's memories stripped from him and then implanted him with a neural regulating device that forced him to obey certain orders. When he and Gemma fell in love, Balfour had ordered the device activated.
Obsidian had shot Gemma through the chest, almost killing her, and hadn't even been able to remember why.
"It's personal," Obsidian said.
"All yours," Byrnes said, tilting his head at his fellow dhampir. "But I'm happy to hold him down for you."
Which, coming from Byrnes, was almost like welcoming him to the family.
"What's wrong?" Gemma asked, as she closed the door to the room she shared with Obsidian.
He continued kicking and striking at his shadow, a fluid mixture of what looked like savate boxing, and Jiu-Jitsu. Stripped to the waist, his pale skin gleamed in the light that shone through the portholes. "Nothing is wrong."
"Of course," she drawled, crossing her arms over her bosom. "Which is why you're down here, beating an unknown assailant to death. Is he very bloody yet? Does he have a name? Or a face?"
Tell me whom it is you imagine....
His bare foot lowered, both of the arches of his feet flexing lightly as he settled into a balanced stance. Not a hint of consternation crossed his face, but then it never did.
No, the trick was to read the tension in his shoulders, and the aggression in his movements. Other men paced and threw their arms about, but Obsidian grew quiet and focused intently inwards when something was bothering him.
"You do realize the shadow can't kick back?" she asked, taking pity on him. Stripping her jacket down her arms, she tossed it on the bed. "But I can."
"You're in skirts," he pointed out.
Gemma kicked her slippers off. "Oh no, whatever shall I do? I've never been assaulted whilst I was wearing a dress. Never strangled a man with my pearls. Never been kidnapped...."
Their gazes met, both of them clearly remembering the time when he'd kidnapped her from a museum, in order to keep her safe from his brethren. Mind you, neither of them had been entirely aware that was what he was doing at the time; every memory of their past had been stripped from him long ago and only the instinct to protect her remained.
Some things couldn't be stolen.
He might not have remembered he'd loved her at the time, but something inside him did.
"Besides...." She tucked her skirts up into the leather holsters she wore around her thighs. "I don't have to pretend to be a lady in here. And you don't have to pull your punches. You know I can handle you."
Years of training as an assassin as a child had given her the skills to face him, though she wasn't quite strong enough or fast enough to win without cheating.
Heat flared to life in his cold gray eyes. "I have to admit I'm not entirely certain whether this is an invitation to spar, or whether you plan on seducing me."
"Why not both?"
She attacked the second the words were out of her mouth. Obsidian countered the kick that came close to unmanning him with a swift chop of his hand. He arched his brow and tilted his head, "That was a little unkind."
"Testing your reflexes," she replied impishly. "Besides, I knew it would never land. And I was aiming for your thigh. I happen to like your unmentionables."
"Heaven help me if you were actually aiming for them."
Gemma grinned and launched into a loose set of sparring kicks and punches to warm up her muscles. She even stole a smile from him when she snuck under his guard to strike his thigh again.
"My turn," he warned her, and drove the heel of his foot at her face.
Gemma ducked beneath the blow and trapped his ankle on her shoulder with her hands. "Predictable."
Sweeping his feet out from under him, she laughed as he took her with him. Then there was a mad scramble as the pair of them wrestled and rolled for position, trapping arms and ankles, and pinching bottoms when the opportunity arose.
Or maybe that was just her.
He pinned her to the hard timber floor, and Gemma's thighs parted, wrapping around his hips as his hard body came over her.
"Predictable." His breathing had quickened. "You didn't even try to escape."
Why would I?
All those slick muscles straining above her, the hard flex of his abdomen painted in delicate ripples that dove into his trousers. Who would want to escape him?
"It seems we're in somewhat of a predicament," she whispered, her chest heaving against the constraints of her corset and gown. "You could concede defeat and have your wicked way with me, which" —a slight wriggle confirmed her suspicions— "one part of you seems quite enthused about. Or.... You could tell me what's been bothering you this entire trip. You've been brooding most intensely."
He stared at her nose, as if he saw something else and Gemma realized this wasn't going to end in bed. "We're about to arrive in St. Petersburg."
"We've taken every precaution we can. Our fate is up in the air, but we're not the only ones who will have to watch our backs. Balfour isn't invincible. We can kill him and rescue Malloryn. He has just as much to lose as we do."
"And Sergey? Nowhere in our plans, have we accounted for him."
The words were soft.
Sergey.
They hadn't mentioned him, as if, in not breathing his name they somehow deprived him of life.
Gemma searched his face. "He's one of Balfour's allies. We both knew we'd encounter him the second we set out for Russia."
Obsidian pushed to his knees, resting his knuckles on his thighs. "He's more than Balfour's ally."
Five years ago, when Obsidian had been brainwashed, Balfour had set him to guard Sergey Grigoriev, the Prince of Tsaritsyn. It was how they'd met. Malloryn wanted her to get close to Sergey to discover what he knew of the tsarina's plans, and Obsidian had thwarted her at every turn.
He'd recognize both their faces, and know the aliases
they'd both operated under.
But that wasn't what Obsidian was talking about now.
"You said you didn't want to speak about it," she said softly, rising up onto her elbows.
Clasping both hands behind his head, he stared down at her. "I needed time to think. Every time I look at that fucking file about me that Charlie stole from the dhampir headquarters, I find hints of the man I used to be. I keep looking at that family tree someone slipped inside the file. I have elements of the bloody Grigoriev coat of arms tattooed on my arm, though I didn't know until I saw it in the file. I keep looking at that name. Dmitri Grigoriev, the eldest son and heir of the former Prince of Tsaritsyn. Is that who I am? I don't know. Balfour has a habit of lying, but why would he keep that family tree in my file?"
Gemma reached out, fingertips brushing against his chest. Not out of enjoyment, but merely to touch him. "If you were a member of the Blood, then your back would bear the marque du sang of the Grigoriev family."
There was nothing there; no tattoo except for the ones on his left arm.
Only scars.
Obsidian bowed his head, and placed both hands on the floor on either side of her hips. "I know."
The loss of memories bothered him more than he'd admit, but she knew he longed for a sense of identity even more than the memories.
"If I am a Grigoriev, then Sergey Grigoriev is my cousin. And it's possible he murdered my family," Obsidian murmured, trailing his fingertips through her hair. "There were rumors about his involvement, swiftly hushed whenever he entered the room."
Gemma slid her hand behind his nape, drawing his mouth down for a sweet kiss. "What are you going to do about it?" she whispered against his mouth.
"I don't know." He rested on his knuckles again. "Malloryn has to remain the priority."
For her. He barely knew the duke.
"But if there's a chance.... I would like to do a little investigating. That family tree was in my file for a reason."
"Balfour's the only one who might know that reason."
He nodded. "I know."
And Gemma bit her lip, because how could she gainsay him when this was just as important to him as rescuing Malloryn was to her?
Instead she kissed him again, this time sliding her hands through his hair. And Obsidian answered in kind, his body lowering atop hers, as his hand slid up her thigh, caressing the curve of her bottom.
"Later," he whispered against her mouth. "Deal with it later."
"So what's your area of expertise?"
Lark peered at Byrnes over the top of her cards. The Company of Rogues had broken up after dinner, but some of them had chosen to remain in the main cabin and share a hand—or ten—of cards. They'd invited both her and Blade to play.
"A little bit of this and that," Lark replied.
"She's a thief," Charlie said, sinking into the chair beside her and uncorking a bottle of blud-wein. He splashed some of it into a pair of glasses and handed one to her. "A damned good one too."
Byrnes grimaced. "I'm an ex-Nighthawk. I don't think I need to know this."
"Aw, poor Byrnes. Rubbing shoulders with the dregs of society. All sorts of bad manners might rub off."
"Speaking of thieves...." Byrnes's eyes narrowed on the bottle in Charlie's hand. "Is that one of mine?"
"Absolutely not." Charlie blinked innocent eyes at him. "I absolutely did not take this from the wine cabinet you've been storing in your rooms."
"Bloody hell. Why does everyone have to drink my blud-wein?"
"Because nobody else has acquired your fine tastes."
"So, a thief." Byrnes considered her again. He seemed remarkably interested in her for some reason. "Are you any good?"
"I make do."
Byrnes leaned back in his chair and then discarded a card on the small table between them. "You'll have to be better than 'making do' if you're to be a true asset to the team. Lord Balfour's incredibly dangerous, and he has at least two dhampir working for him."
Ah. Testing her. This she understood. “Dhampir?"
"When blue bloods approach the Fade, they usually begin to devolve into a vampire," Charlie explained. "It was always thought to be inevitable. But several years ago, a scientist called Dr. Erasmus Cremorne created a serum that could transmute the process. Instead of becoming vampires, his surviving test subjects became dhampir. They have all the benefits of a vampire—insanely strong, incredibly fast, and almost immune to any sort of injury or illness—but they retain their rational instincts."
"And incredibly good stamina," Byrnes added, which earned a snort of amusement from Ingrid.
"Balfour had recruited the dhampir that broke out of Falkirk Asylum, which was where Cremorne was performing his experiments. Obsidian was one of them, but he recently defected to our side," Charlie said, tossing a card on the discard pile. "We’ve managed to kill most of his other dhampir agents. Only three remain alive, according to Obsidian; Jelena and Dido, whom we’re bound to meet in Russia, and Silas, who could be anywhere. His allegiances are… unknown at this stage."
She looked at Byrnes, with his pale blond hair and skin. Albinism was an almost certain sign of the Fade. "So Obsidian is dhampir, and…?"
"I was given that ‘gift’ also," Byrnes replied, with a rueful twist of his lips.
Ingrid dealt them all another card, her bronze eyes heating as the wild within her roused with fury. "Not by choice. You barely survived."
Charlie shot Lark a look that clearly said, "Don’t ask."
"If you encounter a dhampir agent my advice is get the hell out of there," Ingrid said.
"My advice is, don’t encounter one in the first place," Byrnes muttered. "You’re not equipped to sneak up on one, and escaping is virtually impossible, even for someone like me. This isn’t the rookeries anymore, sweetheart. Their senses are superb, their reflexes sublime."
"Understood." Lark rolled her eyes and stood. "More blud-wein?"
She tripped a little, and managed to catch herself on Byrnes's shoulder, spilling the dregs from her glass on his hand and shoulder. He steadied her, the faint arch to his brow indicating she hadn't impressed him with this little maneuver.
"I'm so sorry," Lark said, brushing the blud-wein off him, and Charlie suddenly became very interested in his cards all of a sudden.
"Quite all right," Byrnes drawled. "Perhaps you should have a glass of water, before you drink more?"
Lark glided past him. "I'll keep that in mind."
When she returned with the second bottle, Charlie flashed her a quiet smile.
"So," Lark said, as she resumed her cards. "As an ex-Nighthawk, are you any good?"
Byrnes looked up from his cards incredulously. "I beg your pardon?"
"You questioned my credentials," she replied. "It only seems fair I question yours."
"Prickly little thing, aren't you?" Byrnes laid his cards flat on the table. "Full house. And yes, my dear, I'm very good at what I do."
"The kind of man one can't get one over on very easily?"
Byrnes seemed insulted. "You can try."
I already have.
"Damn it." Charlie folded.
"I'm out too." Ingrid tossed her cards down with a disgusted expression. Lark had expected her and her husband to work as a team, but Ingrid had been trying to destroy Byrnes all night, and from his answering smile whenever she beat him, the feeling was mutual.
Lark considered her cards. "I think... I would like to raise."
Byrnes leaned forward. "How much?"
Lark pushed her entire pile of coin forward.
"Done." Byrnes gave her an evil smile. Then he patted his pockets. "Where the hell is my billfold?"
Lark sipped her blud-wein and held it up between two fingers.
Ingrid burst out laughing.
Byrnes's jaw dropped open. "When did you—?"
"Right about the same time I took this," she replied, putting his pocket watch on the table between them. "And this." Some odd little piece of silver she'd fo
und in his pocket. "And this." His wedding ring.
Byrnes gaped at her, then looked down at his hand, where the indentation of his ring remained.
"But it's a good thing you're very good, Master Byrnes, and nobody can pull the wool over your eyes. I'd have been in trouble then."
"Those sublime reflexes," Charlie snickered.
"And superb senses," Ingrid said, still snorting with amusement. "Oh, I like her."
Byrnes's eyes narrowed as he glanced between her and Charlie.
And then he smiled.
"One hundred quid," he said, and as Ingrid laughed even harder, Charlie flushed and grew very interested in his cards.
Chapter 5
They arrived six days later, sailing through the crisp Russian skies. Saint Petersburg stretched beneath them in a sprawl of canals, ornate churches, statues, elegant palaces, and walled fortresses. Outside the city, the enormous war machines of the Russian Empire squatted like hulking metallic toads, primed to defend the city if need be.
Ice slicked the edges of the Neva; it wasn't quite the heart of winter and yet signs of it were beginning to creep over the city. Up here, the air was almost cold enough to take Lark's breath away as she leaned over the rail on the foredeck and watched her destiny approach.
Her greedy gaze took in everything below her. All her memories of this place were stained with blood. And yet, she couldn't help the conflicting sensation that she was finally coming home. There was something about the feel of the air and the thick accents of the crew that took her back into the past.
Lark closed her eyes, and suddenly she was hiding under the desk in her father’s library, trying not to giggle as he walked around the room saying loudly, "I wonder where my little Irinka has gone?" It was a frequent game between them, with her father opening drawers and lifting chairs and peering behind curtains until he would suddenly "find" her and tickle her until she was laughingly begging him to stop.
Gone. All gone.
She’d never felt so homesick in her life, but no matter how well she knew this country, she would never be able to go home again. It felt like a wound somewhere deep within her, barely scabbed over, was somehow reopened.
