To Catch A Rogue (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  Charlie got the hell out of the middle of the street.

  "Kincaid!" Gemma was staring desperately after him. She eyed the rest of them. "Stay together! We can't afford to separate!"

  "But what about Ava?" Byrnes demanded.

  Sweet, innocent Ava was the heart and soul of the Company of Rogues. And Kincaid adored her.

  If that was Lark....

  "We can't let him go alone," Charlie yelled at Gemma. "I'll watch his back."

  "Charlie! Damn it! No!"

  Charlie snatched the reins of one of the nervous carriage horses, slashing through them with his knife before Gemma could come after him. He unhitched it and leaped onto its back, turning it in a sharp circle as he eyed the streets where both Kincaid and Ava had vanished.

  Lark grabbed his thigh. "Don't you dare!"

  "I have to!" The bay gelding sidled away from her. "Rogues don't leave each other behind. I was the one who made him and Ava take the second carriage!"

  Bending low, he snatched her onto her toes and stole a kiss from her mouth, just in case.

  "I'll come back to you. I promise. Stay here with the others."

  Then he turned the gelding after Kincaid and drove his heels into its flanks.

  Charlie cantered through the streets, easing the horse back to a trot and then a walk. Snowflakes began to drift down like a kiss of cold from the sky, and he wasn't entirely certain where he was.

  He'd lost Kincaid several streets back.

  A sudden loud clatter caught his attention. Charlie wheeled the bay, staring down a narrow street. The horse Kincaid had been riding shot out of the alley, galloping past him, its chest foamed and bloody.

  Charlie's stomach dropped.

  Swinging off the bay, he set it loose, and it galloped after its companion. Then he shimmied up the iron fire escape attached to the side of a building and ghosted over the rooftops.

  Fists struck flesh down in the alley, and someone grunted loudly.

  Charlie caught a glimpse of six figures surrounding an enormous man. Found him. Kincaid lay around him with enormous haymakers, and though the men he was fighting had the numbers, he'd clearly been pushed over the edge by Ava's kidnapping. Two of them weren't getting back up again.

  Charlie saw the glint of a knife and stepped off the rooftop. He landed with a squat behind the man with the knife, and drove the flat chop of his hand into the attacker’s neck.

  The man grunted and whirled on him. Silver flashed as Charlie leaped back, then his own knives were in his hands, whirling dangerously as the fellow lunged for him. He stepped to the side of the lunge and drove his knife between the man's ribs. The other one cut sharply across a throat, spraying blood across the wall.

  It wouldn't kill a blue blood, but it might put him down, and he had no time to finish the job. Two others attacked him, and then Charlie was fighting for his life.

  "Volki!" one of the attackers yelled, and several newcomers sprinted around the corner.

  Outnumbered.

  Both he and Kincaid fell back.

  "What are you doin' here," Kincaid rasped, one hand cupped against his ribs.

  "Rescuing your dumb ass," Charlie panted. There had to be at least nine men arrayed against them. "Can you run?"

  Kincaid staggered a step, and that answered that question.

  "How badly are you hurt?"

  "Just a scratch."

  "Aye. And my name's Martha." Charlie stepped forward so he was between Kincaid and the wolves surrounding them. "Don't get yourself killed, because I am not going to have to tell Ava her fiancé's dead."

  With their backs to the wall, the wolves could only come at them two or three at a time, but it hampered his movements. He couldn't retreat, and Charlie used every trick Blade had ever taught him to keep them away from his throat.

  Blood trickled down his arms.

  His movements were slowing.

  Kincaid stabbed a man who came at him from the side, but he could hear the wind whistling through Kincaid's lungs. Not only a "scratch" but a punctured lung.

  Shit.

  A dark shadow dropped out of nowhere, the whine of rope hissing from the crank at the person's waist.

  Steel flashed past him.

  Charlie shoved Kincaid's head down, but a cry from his side drew his attention. A man kicked and screamed on the ground, a throwing star jutting from his throat. Froth foamed at his mouth. Whatever the stars had been coated in, it clearly wasn't amicable.

  And the newcomer hadn't been aiming for him.

  "Who the hell are you?" Charlie gasped in terrible Russian.

  The masked figure looked at him mercilessly. The bottom of the face was covered with black leather, leaving a pair of dark almond-shaped eyes glaring at him over the top. A woman by the look of those long lashes and narrow shoulders, and she replied in heavily accented English. "I am Deathless. You shouldn't be in these streets. They belong to Chernyye Volki."

  Then she drew a long, straight-edged sword and turned on the six men left standing. A sharp stream of Russian spat from her mouth, the men took one look at the sword, and then they turned and bolted.

  Charlie bent over, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. He looked around him at the scattered bodies. "We didn't know. They took one of ours."

  "Then leave before this trespass is noticed by others." The woman turned and strode away, her cloak fanning out behind her.

  "Wait!" He straightened. "Why did you help us?"

  "Because we see all. And you are not only trespasser here tonight."

  He looked at the battered wolf mask on the ground by his feet. It was something the Black Wolves wore, but if she was a Black Wolf, then why had she turned on her compatriots?

  What sort of trespass?

  Was there some kind of split among the Wolves?

  "Can you help us find our friend?" he called.

  "No." She was starting to fade into the curtain of snow.

  "Ava's just an innocent!"

  "She is not my concern," came the distant reply.

  And then she was gone.

  He turned back to find Kincaid gasping against the brick wall of the alleyway. Charlie knelt and rifled through his friend's coat for his flask of blood. Every blue blood carried one.

  "Here. Drink this. It will help your stab wounds to heal."

  "We have to find her," Kincaid gasped, grabbing the flask off him and draining it with determination.

  "How? We don't even know where we are. And we've been asked to leave. I don't think I want her to have to ask again, do you?" He nodded pointedly at the body beside them.

  Kincaid's eyes held hell.

  He punched the wall with his bio-mech fist, and Charlie caught the other man's hand before Kincaid could hurt himself—or ruin the new limb.

  "Stop! We'll get her back. I swear we'll get her back. Think, Kincaid. I know you're at the mercy of the craving right now, but Ava would want you to think, wouldn't she? She wouldn't want you injured or dead because you rushed in blindly."

  Kincaid slid his hands over his face, curling both human and mech fingers into his hair. Every inch of him shook. "You don't understand. A long time ago, a man kidnapped her and performed the most horrific experiments upon her. This is her worst nightmare." He groaned. "I promised I'd always protect her. I can't just leave her there. I have to find her."

  Charlie squeezed his shoulder. "And we will. But we can't do this alone. We need the rest of the Rogues."

  Chapter 19

  Heels rang on the stone staircase after days without seeing a soul.

  The Duke of Malloryn lifted his head slowly, his shoulders aching as he shifted in his chains. Once again, he was strung from the ceiling, though he couldn't remember when they'd taken him from the box that last time.

  He was losing track of time.

  Losing track of himself.

  Inch by inch they stripped the urbane essence from him, until only the primitive nature of the craving remained.

  A loud cl
ank echoed through the cellar and then the door opened. Light spilled through the bars containing him, and his gut tied itself in knots as he looked to see which one of them it would be.

  He could tolerate Dido.

  She took no real pleasure in his pain, determined to do her duty and nothing more, nothing less. But Jelena had promised to break him, and as the days stretched into nights and the nights stretched into days, he was starting to wonder how much fight he had left in him.

  The odds weren't in his favor.

  Jelena materialized, a long black cloak swirling around her ankles as she lifted a silver wolf's head mask from over her head and discarded it on the floor. In the lantern light, her cheeks were flushed pink and she smiled almost girlishly as her eye locked upon him.

  "Did you miss me?" she purred.

  He forced himself to hold still, fighting against the instinctive tremor of his body. "Been counting... the days, love."

  "Ah, that insolent tongue. I'm going to cut it out one day. And then I think I'll feed it to you."

  He forced himself to shift onto the balls of his feet so his weight wasn't hanging entirely on his shoulders. "What's it to be today? The whip? The knives?" His mouth went dry. "Your Iron Maiden?"

  He didn't think he'd survive another run locked inside it, the silver-tipped spikes driving further into his flesh whenever the machine ticked through its circuit. The silver burned, and the ache was constant.

  But he couldn't afford to let her know that.

  "Ah, no. Not today. I have something special in mind for you today. You're not the one who's going to be bleeding."

  "If you think me squeamish, I beg you, think again."

  "Let's test your resolve, Malloryn." Jelena grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head back. "It's been weeks since you've tasted blood. I'll bet you're starving. All those injuries exacerbating the craving virus in your body. It hungers, doesn't it? Do you want blood, Malloryn?"

  He turned his head, his predator eyes locking upon her and the pulse pounding thickly in her throat. "Are you offering?"

  Jelena laughed, letting his hair go as she backed away. "Oh, no, Malloryn. Not I."

  His fingers curled into a fist. The world was flickering around him, a harsh grating sound buzzing in his ears as the hunger rose at the mere mention of blood. Ever since he'd been infected with the craving virus at the age of fifteen, he'd been in control of himself.

  But they'd bled him dry, starved him, beaten him and tortured him.

  It would be some innocent.

  He knew it, even before he heard the sounds of struggle on the stairs, and his heart ached.

  "Please let me go! Please!" someone begged.

  Jelena didn't know how close this came to tipping him over the edge.

  He heard Catherine again, begging Balfour not to shoot. Saw Isabella put the pistol to her chin and beg him to save her. Both women had loved him. And both had paid the price.

  They died because of you.

  Malloryn sucked in a ragged gasp. He wanted blood so badly he could almost taste it. Hunger raged, the monster inside him slipping its leash.

  A man dragged the struggling woman inside. He barely saw her blonde curls or the pretty heart-shaped face. All he saw was the frantic way she struggled.

  He could hear her pulse beating a ragged tattoo, even from here.

  They tossed her onto the cold stone floors of his cell, and she sprawled there, smothered in her green skirts.

  Weak. Vulnerable.

  Take it, whispered the darkness within him.

  The cell door clanged shut, trapping her inside with him.

  "Release him," Jelena commanded, but he barely heard her.

  All he knew was that his chains finally slackened. He hit the floor, trailing them across the cobbles as he lifted his head and focused on the girl's long, elegant throat.

  She scrambled into a sitting position, pressing her back to the wall. "Malloryn?"

  The name drew him up short.

  He remembered that face. Knew that voice.

  Somehow he was swimming up through the darkness that smothered him.

  "Ava," he whispered hoarsely, the color bleeding back into his vision.

  Hope dawned within him like a sun rising. What was she doing here? Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Had he finally gone mad with bloodlust?

  "Are you real?" he breathed.

  "We're here. We're all here to save you," she whispered, rolling onto her knees as if she sensed some of his humanity returning. "Here." She began unbuttoning her sleeve. "You need blood."

  "Don't." He shied away from her, chains rattling.

  Ava swallowed. "I remember a time when I'd been injected with Black Vein and you gave me your blood to heal me. Let me repay the favor."

  I am not that man.

  His mouth watered, and suddenly he wasn't looking at Ava. He was looking at prey.

  "Stay away from me," he snarled.

  "You are the Duke of Malloryn," Ava said firmly. "You can master this."

  She held her wrist out to him.

  There was no knife to slice her vein neatly. Some blue bloods filed their teeth into points, but Malloryn had never seen the point. He was an aristocrat, not a savage. Ava saw him shake his head, and with a sigh, set her fingernail to her wrist.

  Jelena leaned against the bars, her single eye burning with fervor.

  "I will not hurt her."

  Jelena flipped her wrist, and something shot through the bars toward Ava. A small steel star that slashed across her décolletage, splashing blood across her gown. Ava gasped and clapped a hand to her chest, but he could see that seductive crimson tide spreading through her fingers and soaking the lace of her bodice.

  Instantly, the scent of blood filled the air, plunging his vision through shades of gray before he forced himself to climb out of the darkness, step by steady step.

  "We shall see, Malloryn. It's going to be long night ahead of you." Jelena pushed away from the bars. "I hope your resolve is as good as you claim."

  "Take a little blood," Ava whispered. "Just a little. Enough to assuage the worst of the hunger."

  Malloryn rested his head back against the cell wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, where he gripped them. He didn't dare move. He couldn't look at her. Breathing slowly through his mouth, he tried to ignore her words and the scent that flavored the air.

  "Tell me about the others," he finally murmured, forcing himself to focus on the Company of Rogues. "Distract me."

  "They'll be looking for us," she promised. "Jelena cut the tracking implant from the back of my neck, but they're close. Charlie and Lark have been searching Balfour's properties, and Gemma and the others are distracting Balfour."

  "Lark?" He didn't know that name.

  "Charlie's friend from the rookeries. Blade is here too. And Lord Barrons."

  All of them. They'd come for him.

  The fucking fools.

  He was either going to throttle Gemma when he got his hands on her, or lose his composure utterly.

  Jelena had made one mistake when she cast Ava in here with him.

  Before he'd seen her, he'd thought himself alone. He'd known he would die here. He'd almost reached the stage where he'd accepted it, as long as they made the pain go away.

  But now there was hope.

  If they arrived in time.

  Because now, Jelena and Dido weren't the threat. He was.

  "How did they capture you?"

  If she kept talking, then maybe he'd be able to distract himself long enough. The wound across her chest had healed, courtesy of the craving virus, but the blood stained her gown.

  His gums ached and his throat was so, so dry. Malloryn smashed his knuckles into the floor, focusing on the pain. It was all that anchored him to rationality.

  Ava prattled on, and he focused on her voice, because attempting to concentrate on the words was beyond him.

  "Malloryn?"

  The words stopped. Malloryn looked up, and
realized he'd began to inch closer to her, his gaze locked on the bloodied lace of her gown.

  "You're not going to last the night," Ava said, swallowing.

  "Yes. I will."

  He was the Duke of Malloryn. He was not going to be thwarted by his own fucking hunger.

  "Be rational." She showed him the star in her hand and licked her lips. "I know how much it aches. You're starving. You've been beaten. I know you pride yourself on your control, but your eyes are pure black. You will not make the dawn without attacking me. Take a little blood now, while you still have some of your faculties and might be able to stop."

  She didn't understand.

  One taste and he'd be lost.

  "You are the Duke of Malloryn," Ava said firmly. "You can master this. You need to be healed and in control, because when the sun rises they will check to see if you've killed me or not. You need to be strong enough to fight them. Don't you want to defeat Balfour? Don't let your pride defeat you. Don't let him win because you're too damned stubborn to admit when you are struggling."

  He couldn't hold himself much longer. The smell of blood was getting to him.

  "Do it."

  Ava picked up the small steel star and dragged its razor sharp edge across her wrist. "I know you, Your Grace. I trust you. I know you can defeat this."

  He forced himself to ignore the impropriety of bloodletting another man's fiancée.

  Kincaid would never forgive him, but at least there might be a chance Malloryn wouldn't kill her if he just took the edge off his thirst.

  "Speak to me," he whispered, lifting her wrist to his lips. "Tell me everything the Rogues have been doing."

  Help me stay human.

  Ava's voice came out breathy. "Gemma saw Dido abduct you, and we knew where they'd be taking you. We took a vote. It was unanimous. Rogues don't leave other Rogues behind—"

  Her words were a balm. But then his lips touched her wrist, blood wetting his tongue. He could barely hear her anymore as she prattled on.

  Malloryn suckled hard, her blood spilling down his throat.

  "Malloryn," she gasped. "Ease up."

  Her blood was so sweet, after so many days starving. The scent of it.... Christ. It had been so long, and yet blood had never tasted like this. He wanted to rub his face in it. Wanted to grab a fistful of her hair and tear into her throat with his blunt, blunt teeth....