by Bec McMaster
"His most high-profile kill was the Duke of Goethe," Gemma said, pushing to her feet and standing next to Malloryn, "though we suspect his involvement in that purely from the type of bullet used. He notches a diamond into the casing. It was his third-last kill, right before the revolution occurred, and it was abnormal for him to come out of the shadows like that. He worked with a crew of Lord Balfour's Falcons, but his was the bullet that killed Goethe. Goethe's moves on the council hampered the prince consort's power plays, and several of the previous assassinations happened to be the prince consort's enemies. His last kill, Lord Randall, was the one anomaly to the pattern. Randall was a trusted cousin of the prince consort who was working on his behalf to forge an alliance with the blue bloods of the Russian court. They played golf together. He was murdered the same day of the revolution and his killer apprehended on the spot, though he refused to confess and claimed he had no recollection of killing Randall."
"You believe this Chameleon worked for the prince consort?" Ingrid asked.
"We don't know. We suspect he had to be connected to the prince consort in some way, as there are too many coincidental deaths among the prince consort's enemies."
"He?" Byrnes asked, pouring a brandy for Ingrid. "If you don't know who it is, then how can you presume?"
"Because we have several witnesses and every single one of them describes a different man. Old, young, bearded, clean-shaven, brown hair, blond, tall, short.... He was a master of disguise. There is no distinguishing characteristic beyond his calling cards; the King of Diamonds card is usually planted on the victim's body; a diamond is engraved on the casing of the bullet used to kill; and there's nowhere he can't get into, no one he can't kill."
"He wants to be known," Charlie mused.
"He's proud of his work," Byrnes added.
"And the man you thought was the Chameleon?" Ingrid mused, sipping her brandy. "I presume there's a reason we're discussing this case now."
The baroness rounded the table toward the opaque projector at the far end and removed one of the caps so the screen on the wall at the opposite end of the table suddenly lit up.
"As Malloryn said, we thought we'd captured him three years ago," the baroness said. The projector flashed as she slid a small slide into place, and a photograph of a man with a neatly trimmed mustache flashed up on the wall.
Malloryn stared at the image. "Jonathan Carlyle. The man we thought to be the Chameleon until this morning. Carlyle was serving as Lord Randall's footman—a new posting for him—when he put a pistol to Carlyle's head and pulled the trigger. Gemma brought him in. Since then, he's been locked away in Thorne Tower and the queen's best questioners have been working on him to discover whom he worked for. For three years he's pled his innocence, and he couldn't remember being in the room at the time of Carlyle's murder. He stuck with this story regardless of what was done to him, and I've seen dangerous assassins break under less. He simply couldn't remember anything beyond his lordship sending him to fetch brandy. He didn't know why he did it. He claimed to like Lord Randall, who'd given him a position that gave him the ability to send money home to his elderly mother and sister. He felt like he owed Randall a debt, and he used to sob when Randall was mentioned. It's always bothered me because we could never find a reason for what he did, or understand how such a limp handkerchief of a man like Carlyle ever managed to carve a swathe through half the Echelon."
"Interesting," Byrnes said, leaning forward. "A man with no reason to murder a blue blood pulls the trigger, but can't remember why. I'd say I wanted the Randall case, but I'm fairly certain there's more to it. You said the Chameleon was murdered."
"This morning, Carlyle's cell door was discovered unlocked. Someone put a bullet through his forehead in a move seemingly reminiscent of the Chameleon. It was a particular type of bullet only found in certain killings. He had a playing card in his hand—a King of Diamonds."
Byrnes eased out a breath, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he examined the image. "You think the real Chameleon is still out there, and you misjudged."
"I don't know what I believe," Malloryn countered, glancing her way.
Gemma ground her teeth together. She'd been the witness who saw Carlyle standing over the body of Lord Randall. Yet it wasn't the first time she'd failed a mission spectacularly.
You didn't fail. You saw him.
Behind closed lids, she called to mind the image of Jonathan Carlyle slipping into Lord Randall's parlor and pouring him a glass of bloodied brandy, which his lordship took. The second Randall lifted it to his lips, Carlyle removed the linen cloth on the tray in his hand, revealing a pistol.
He'd put the muzzle to Randall's forehead and pulled the trigger before she could even cry a warning.
"I saw it happen," she burst out, unable to tolerate Malloryn's pointed silence. "I was undercover as Randall's secretary at the time, trying to stop the Chameleon before he completed his mission."
Byrnes tapped his fingers on the edge of his chair. "If Gemma saw Carlyle pull the trigger, and yet someone else killed Carlyle, then we have two Chameleons."
"Possibly. Or perhaps Carlyle was a scapegoat. Perhaps the real Chameleon knew we were closing in and wanted to throw us off the trail?"
"Could it have been blackmail?" Charlie asked. "Perhaps the real Chameleon forced Carlyle to kill Randall?"
"Why did he not remember killing him then?" Ingrid asked.
Gemma seethed. If it was true, then the Chameleon had known she was on his trail and had deliberately fooled her. "You said there was a credible threat against the queen?"
Malloryn withdrew a playing card from within his waistcoat and held it out to her.
A single bullet hole was drilled through the center of the card.
He turned the card around, revealing the suit.
"Queen of Diamonds," she whispered.
"Someone pinned this to my front door with a knife, then put a bullet in it. It happened just before lunch, and woke me."
Gemma grabbed the card, examining it. Her breath came a little faster. "He wanted you to know he was coming for her."
"Indeed."
She was convinced, as nothing else could have convinced her. The Chameleon had spent years playing games with her and Malloryn. Every death had been a mockery. A catch me if you can. And then she'd finally done it, and the murders stopped, and she'd had no reason to doubt Carlyle's identity, despite her lingering questions. "This is him. He's back. And he's definitely after the queen."
But where had he been for three years?
"Find him," Malloryn instructed. "I need to return to the Tower and put security protocols into place."
"He'll be on the inside already," she whispered.
"I know."
Their eyes met.
"If he kills the queen, then London goes up in flames," Malloryn said in a dangerously soft voice, and suddenly Gemma knew the stakes were higher than they'd ever been. "We cannot afford to fail."
No matter what.
5
"Where the hell is Langley?" Ghost demanded.
Where you'll never find him, Obsidian thought, though he didn't dare meet his brother's searing pale blue eyes.
The leader of the dhampir paced along the train platform deep in Undertown, where their base was hidden. Ghost stood almost an inch taller than him, his hair an unruly shock of white, his brows and eyelashes bleached to match. He didn't dare go aboveground for fear he'd send people screaming at the sight of his pale, pale skin; a certain sign of the Fade—the moment when either a vampire or dhampir was created from what had once been a blue blood.
But then, Ghost generally preferred to avoid most humans anyway, unless he was thirsty.
"You sent Langley after a dangerous target," Silas replied. He was another of the original dhampir who'd been created by Dr. Erasmus Cremorne at Falkirk Asylum. There'd been seven of them that survived the initial experiment, their bond forged through blood, pain, and finally fire, when they'd banded
together to break out. "What'd you expect?"
"Success." Ghost clasped his gloved hands behind his back. "This makes two of our acolytes dead by the hands of one of the members of the Company of Rogues. The Master won't appreciate our failure. And Langley was good. I trained him myself. This makes no sense."
"Clearly your new batch of dhampir aren't as good as you think they are," Obsidian murmured. "Or you underestimated Miss Townsend."
The same way he once had.
Never again.
"Do you want me to take care of it?" Silas asked. "Why not send your best?"
Obsidian's gut muscles locked. He kept all expression off his face, however, and merely stared at the old train platform beneath his feet.
Silas was the one dhampir he actually gave a damn about anymore.
If he considered anyone a brother, it was Silas.
Killing him would be... difficult.
Could he do it? Was Miss Townsend's life worth the price of the one man he still considered a brother?
No. Surely not.
But there was that slither of darkness within him, a whisper of demand and ownership. Mine. The mere thought of someone else putting their hands on Gemma Townsend made the craving rise within him, as if his darker half was trying to tell him something.
What the hell was wrong with him?
What had she done to him?
"Why not send two of the acolytes?" he countered. Ghost stiffened, as if considering both options, and Obsidian realized he needed to sell his suggestion. "This is plainly a larger task than one can handle alone, but I hardly think Silas needs to stir himself. Send two. Give them a week, at least, to watch Miss Townsend's movements before they make an attempt. Perhaps Langley rushed the job?"
"Perhaps I should send you?" Ghost's voice grew dangerously soft. "If we're speaking of my best...."
"I thought you wanted me watching the Ivory Tower? You've been praising your new Falcon recruits. Surely they can handle a simple assassination?" His pulse thudded in his throat. Pain bloomed within him, stabbing through his brain. Easy. This felt like a trap, though he had nothing to prove. He'd burned Gemma from his memories years ago.
Which is why you're killing those sent to hunt her.
Ghost and Silas exchanged a glance.
"You are," Ghost finally said. "I want you to get me inside it."
"I'm working on it." He'd been mapping the Ivory Tower's strengths and weaknesses for weeks now, watching patiently. The queen lived there, high in her gilded tower, thinking herself safe from the world.
Obsidian didn't truly care whether the queen lived or died, but the Master had given strict instructions.
The queen needed to die a bloody death.
London needed to burn.
And the Duke of Malloryn needed to watch it all happen.
"Then work harder," Ghost threatened. "I need a way inside the Ivory Tower before the queen's birthday ball."
Obsidian stared flatly at him. "My apologies. It's not as though there are several legions of Coldrush Guards to avoid, a good legion of metaljacket automatons one mustn't wake, and a wall that's impossible to climb—even for me."
"Are you being sarcastic?"
"Would I dare?"
They stared at each other. Careful. Brother. Obsidian gave Ghost a thin, faintly edged smile. Frustration edged within him. Ghost ruled the dhampir. He always had, but ever since he and Dr. Richter managed to make a breakthrough with the elixir vitae and learned to create new dhampir, Ghost had become insufferably demanding.
I am not one of your sycophantic underlings. And if you think I'm going to kiss your boots, then you should perhaps think again.
"It's that straight fuckin' face of his," Silas said, bursting into the silence as he slammed a hand down on Obsidian's shoulder, squeezing lightly in warning. "Can never tell when he's makin' mock, but Obsidian knows how important this is. He'll get us in. Ain't nowhere he can't get into if he's half a mind. You know that. Just needs time."
Ghost's eyes narrowed. "You're dismissed. You have three days to get inside the tower and out again. I need the transmitter placed at the very top. And I think you're overdue a visit to Dr. Richter. I'll have him schedule a reconditioning appointment for you."
"You're too kind. But I think I need all my faculties for the task ahead of me." Visits to Dr. Richter's always helped ease the headaches that plagued him, but the cost was several days rest. Obsidian couldn't afford to lose consciousness for so long. Not with the target on Miss Townsend's back. He bowed his head as he stepped backward. "I'll work on the tower."
Ghost turned to Silas. "Send two of the new class after Miss Townsend. They have a week to deliver her body to Malloryn's doorstep. I want him distracted, his attention turned away from the tower, while we plan how to get at the queen."
"Consider it done," Silas replied.
"And how goes Project: Chameleon?" Ghost murmured under his breath to Silas as Obsidian turned toward the narrow stairs that led from Undertown up to the streets of Bethnal Green.
His ears pricked up.
"You could say... it's been resurrected," Silas replied.
"Good. That should catch Malloryn's attention."
Even with his back turned, Obsidian could hear the smile in his brother's voice. Taking the stairs two at a time, he threw himself into the climb, his thoughts churning.
The situation with Miss Townsend wouldn't end with Ghost's defeat.
No matter how many dhampir Obsidian killed, Ghost would keep sending them until she was dead, and it made the muscle in Obsidian's jaw tense.
She was his.
His target.
His to kill.
She'd betrayed him in Russia. He remembered that, though his memory was patchy. He also remembered the taste of her mouth, though he refused to think about those thoughts at all.
He needed to get this Gemma situation under control. Find out why he couldn't kill her. Find out why he couldn't stay away from her.
But first, he needed to ensure his fellow dhampir never got their hands upon her. He'd managed to give himself time. A week before they made their move. Which meant he had a week to burn her out of his system for good.
How the hell was he going to lure her into the open? He couldn't break into Malloryn's not-so-secret townhouse and steal her out of her bed, as the rest of the Company of Rogues was on the defense following his recent break-in and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to the act.
Somehow he had to get his hands on her and finish this, before Ghost did.
And that was when he realized just how to get her out of the safe house.
"We've got another potential Chameleon target," Baroness Schröder said, striding into the breakfast room.
Gemma almost spilled her cup of tea as the baroness slapped the file on the table. She jerked it toward her. "Another? I thought he was going after the queen?"
Inside the file was a King of Diamonds card with a bullet hole right through the center.
"Leo Barrons received this late last night," the baroness said.
"The Duke of Caine's heir?" she asked, looking up in surprise. Barrons served as Caine's proxy on the Council of Dukes and remained firm friends with Malloryn. Indeed, he was possibly the only person Malloryn truly considered a friend these days. "Does Malloryn know?"
Isabella poured herself a cup of tea. "Yes. Herbert said Malloryn sent a servant with the card this morning. He couldn't make an appearance himself. Apparently he's having his final fitting for the wedding this morning. But he'll be here at eleven, and he wants you ready."
Hell. Chameleon or not, that had been carelessly done of her.
Gemma circled the table, setting her own tea down, and hugged Isabella from behind. "You know Malloryn cares nothing for Miss Hamilton. This is merely a result of the girl outplaying him. Her reputation is ruined and if Malloryn doesn't marry her then so is his."
After all, the girl's dress had been torn and her throat bloodied when she'd thrown
herself at Malloryn in the garden of some blue blood's ball, claiming he'd proposed. Two seconds later, half the Echelon came walking around the hedge. As a proponent of the Thrall Bill, in which he'd argued for tighter laws concerning what a blue blood could and could not do with his contracted thrall, Malloryn could hardly refuse.
It was clear she'd been with some blue blood.
If Malloryn had denied her, he'd have been considered a hypocrite, and any sort of political sway he'd managed to build behind the bill would have vanished.
One could almost applaud Miss Hamilton for the way she played it, except for the fact Malloryn was most likely a bigger fish than the girl could haul in and handle.
Isabella reached up to squeeze her hand before politely disengaging. "Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Give him time to deal with this wedding fiasco, and then...."
"I don't need time." Isabella pushed away from her and dumped two sugar cubes into her tea. "He called off our arrangement weeks ago. Said it wasn't fair to either of us. I suspect he meant me."
Gemma stared at her friend helplessly. "I never knew you had such intense feelings for him."
"I don't," Isabella replied sharply. "I knew what I was getting myself into when I seduced him. Malloryn doesn't own a heart. There was no point trying to capture it."
But he'd captured hers.
Gemma could see it written all over the other woman.
With her own experience in heartbreak, she ached to see someone else desperately trying to gather their shattered decorum and put the pieces of their heart together.
"What are you doing tomorrow night?" she asked.
Isabella's dark eyes flickered to hers. "I haven't any plans. Why?"
"Come with me. You and I shall have a night at the theatre together. We'll laugh and drink far too much champagne, and maybe engage in a little casual flirtation." Somehow she managed a saucy smile. "Who knows? Perhaps the both of us will find a distraction for the night? My bed's been empty for far too long."
Isabella's eyes lit up, then she sighed. "I suspect you're going to be too busy with this latest Chameleon business. Malloryn wants you working on Barrons. He's setting things into play at the tower to protect the queen himself."
