You Only Love Twice

by Bec McMaster

  Langley spun around, relief flooding his expression when he saw whom it was. "Bloody hell, Obsidian. You nearly scared three years off my life."

  "Apologies."

  Obsidian straightened and strode toward him as Langley visibly relaxed. He barely knew the disciple. They were all merely cannon fodder, created for the Master's purposes from the ranks of Lord Balfour's former Falcons. Spies and assassins once, they served the same role now they were a little harder to kill, and far more bloodthirsty with the transition.

  "Are you here to observe whether I pass my test or not?" Langley sneered a little. "The bitch might have eluded the other assassins sent to kill her, but I assure you I shall not fail."

  That's right. This one thought highly of himself.

  "No." Obsidian lunged forward, burying his blade right in the center of the other dhampir's chest. Langley never even saw it coming. Clamping a hand over the other dhampir's mouth to silence any sounds of the skirmish, he swung behind him, wrenching Langley's head up to reveal his vulnerable throat.

  Langley struggled, his dark red-black blood gushing over Obsidian's gloves as he yanked his knife up until it met Langley's sternum. There were many things a dhampir could survive. You needed to cut out their heart to be absolutely certain the evolved craving virus wouldn't re-animate them.

  A choking sound vibrated in Langley's throat as his flailing hand landed on Obsidian's arm. Struck him again. Finally clutched at his sleeve, as if to beg for mercy.

  "Sshh," Obsidian whispered, drawing the other man back into his embrace. "It will all be over soon."

  He made certain of it.

  Langley's hand fell from his sleeve, his weight suddenly slumping against Obsidian as his knife macerated the other dhampir's heart. The breath wheezed out of Langley's lungs.

  "My apologies," he whispered in the younger dhampir's ear as he lowered the body to the ground. "But Gemma Townsend is mine."

  If anyone was going to kill her, it was going to be him.

  The woman who called herself Gemma Townsend had the feeling she was being followed.

  A curious incident, for she herself was following someone.

  And yet, the familiar prickle of being watched itched the back of her neck, and all her senses were on high alert. If her task weren't as important as it was, she'd have laughed at the situation.

  A spy being spied upon. That was the sort of jest that would have made her dearest friend, Baroness Schröder, laugh.

  Yet now she was out in the field, she couldn't afford to.

  "Where are you?" she whispered to herself, slipping through the thinning crowd of people as she glanced over her shoulder.

  The dreary afternoon fog settled over the buildings like a mantle, people tucking up their collars as they hurried home. Horses’ hooves clopped on the cobblestones, and a steam carriage veered past, hissing a lungful of smoke in her face as she stepped up onto the curb.

  Dozens of people strode the streets, but as she surveyed them with a practiced eye she knew none of them had the vaguest interest in her. In her field of work, she could always spot a person's tells. It had become second nature over the years. Someone loitering—the way she was—or turning to survey a nearby window in sudden curiosity when their mark turned around. Usually a single person hovering just out of the line of sight, and weaving through the crowd, using them as cover.

  Three men jostled past her on the sidewalk. Gemma tucked her basket of posies close to her skirts. She'd blackened a tooth, and her cheeks were stained with soot, her eyebrows thickened with the judicious use of powders. She'd hovered over a bowl of boiling water that morning so her sleek black hair dried into frizzy strands, and pinned it up haphazardly. Nobody glancing at her would take a second look; girls selling flowers were all through this section of Covent Garden.

  The best way to be invisible was to play a common part in plain sight.

  And yet, she was fairly certain someone had made her.

  She scuttled on, trying to keep the Earl of Kylemore in view. At the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, and glanced up as a flicker of movement vanished into the shadows on the nearest roof. Odd. Could have been a pigeon, she supposed, but—

  There.

  Right behind her.

  A shape emerged from the fog and Gemma slipped the knife from her sleeve in a smooth movement, the hilt falling into her gloved palm like an old friend she knew well.

  A hand snatched her elbow, jostling her in the crowd, and Gemma's fist curled around the knife as she moved to strike and—

  Pulled the blow the second she recognized her assailant.

  "We have a problem," the Duke of Malloryn muttered under his breath, his shadow falling across her.

  Gemma gasped.

  "You nearly had an immediate knife-shaped problem." She glanced into the duke's unexpressive face as he gripped her elbow in the middle of Bond Street. "What the hell are you doing? I almost stabbed you between the ribs. Have you not heard the rules of going undercover? Never sneak up on a fellow operative when they're on edge."

  "I thought you saw me."

  She peered behind her, that uncanny feeling still rippling along her skin. "I knew someone was watching me." Someone had been watching her for weeks now, she was certain of it. Or maybe your nerves are just playing games with you? "But I thought I caught a glimpse of them on the rooftops. Just shadows in the fog, I guess."

  Malloryn stared into her face, reading her like an open book. A dangerously handsome man, it was his mind one had to be wary of. Thoughts ticked behind those chilling gray eyes, as if he could see right through her. "Are you completely recovered after that incident in the museum?"

  Someone had tried to kill her.

  And she swore another man had saved her life; she'd caught a glimpse of a tall, pale blur reflected behind her in the glass cabinet as she fainted from blood loss.

  Malloryn wasn't talking about her health, however. "I'm fine." He'd been somewhat skeptical of her claims of being followed that day, but Gemma knew what she'd seen.

  "Good. Come with me."

  Ahead of her, the quarry she'd been pursuing all morning began arguing with an orange seller. The Earl of Kylemore was allegedly a member of the Sons of Gilead, a covert alliance of disgruntled lords from the Echelon who were hoping to overthrow the queen. Last month the SOG burned down three of the city's draining factories before most of them were either shot or caught by the Nighthawks who protected the city. A few had escaped, and though she suspected Kylemore wasn't highly placed within the SOG, she'd been hoping he'd be able to lead her to the men who were. It was time to round up the last scraps of the SOG and end them.

  If Kylemore saw her here with Malloryn, she'd never get close to him again.

  The only reason Malloryn would risk breaking her cover was if something insanely important had arisen.

  Gemma shot Malloryn a saucy smile, not quite willing to destroy weeks of hard work. "Its a ha'penny a posy, if you're asking, milord."

  Eyes glittering, he tugged a handful of coins from his purse and pressed them into her hand. "I'll take the lot."

  Gemma blushed, accepting his arm and behaving like any flower girl who'd found herself propositioned on the street. "This had better be important," she warned as the Earl of Kylemore vanished.

  "It is." Malloryn strolled with her toward the end of the street.

  A steam hack was waiting there, though he hadn't brought his usual coach and four.

  The door opened abruptly, revealing Herbert, the Duke of Malloryn's butler-slash-spy-slash-assassin, depending on which day of the week it was.

  "Cheerio, Miss Townsend," Herbert said with a wink as he hopped out.

  "Herbert," she greeted with a flirtatious shrug of the shoulder. "He's got you driving steam carriages now?"

  "Got to keep my hand in," Herbert replied. "You never know when Malloryn's going to cast me to the curb, and then I'll still be able to feed my poor, misbegotten family."

  "You don't
have a family," Malloryn said, kicking the step down for her. He didn't so much as smile, and Gemma exchanged a long look with Herbert. Once upon a time Malloryn had owned a sense of humor, though she saw it eroding day by day, year by year.

  Something had happened.

  "Get in. Now."

  Gemma got in. "Where are you taking me?"

  "The Ivory Tower. I need you to take a look at a body."

  20

  "We need to send the Duke of Malloryn a message...."

  The word's echoed in Obsidian's ears as he slipped along the edge of a roof, stalking his quarry. Fog swirled around his boots, tendrils curling away from his cloak like the tentacles of an octopus. Ahead of him, a pale figure vanished over the next gable, completely unaware of the danger that stalked him.

  This was Langley's first mission.

  Too bad it would also be his last.

  The young dhampir operative had been newly transformed only a year ago, the elixir vitae changing him from a blue blood afflicted with the craving virus into a more evolved creature. Faster than a blue blood, stronger, and practically invincible, the dhampir were what blue bloods were always meant to become.

  Obsidian remembered the agony of transformation, though the precise details were lost in the blazing fugue of pain. Few survived the transformation, and those who did never forgot it. The loss of his ability to walk beneath the sun was small payment for his incredible senses.

  Even he, with his fractured memories and the taunting blank spots where he knew something important had happened, could remember the night Dr. Erasmus Cremorne injected him with the first dose of serum.

  Langley paused at the edge of the gutter, sinking to his haunches to survey the street below. He flexed his right fingers, as if nervous. Probably was. This assassination had been requested by the Master himself; the man who ruled Obsidian and his fellow dhampir. The others worshipped the master, though Obsidian felt nothing.

  Emotions sucked like a black hole within him, bleeding him dry. He remembered nothing.

  He felt nothing.

  He was nothing.

  "I am a weapon," he whispered to himself by rote. "Forged out of the flames themselves."

  Obsidian melted into the shadows, pressing his back to a chimney. Below him on the street, he could make out Langley's quarry.

  The young woman wore a becoming dress of lavender that set off the pale cream of her skin, despite her dirty apron. She'd dyed her hair black since the last time he'd seen her seven years ago, and swayed through the crowd with an innate sense of grace that drew the male gaze, no matter what role she played. One of the Duke of Malloryn's spies, she'd worn many names and faces over the years. She called herself Gemma now, though he'd known her as Hollis Beechworth.

  Obsidian's hand slid to the knife at his side. There. There was the hot press of emotion, flaming like a supernova through his veins. He didn't understand it. He knew her face. Could recall the night she tried to kill him all those years ago.

  But nothing else.

  Only this curious surge of hunger within him as the darkness in his soul suddenly reared its head the second he saw her.

  He needed to know why Gemma—he refused to think of her as Hollis—pulled at him like this.

  And he needed her alive if he was going to decipher what it all meant—just why he was so drawn to her.

  "Have her killed," his master had commanded, "Put her in a white gown, like something a debutante—or a thrall—would wear. Then shoot her straight through the heart. And leave her on Malloryn's doorstep."

  A message for the duke—their nemesis.

  A mission for Langley, to prove his allegiance to the cause.

  A pity Langley was never going to pass his test.

  Obsidian let the fog mask his movements as he set out in search of his prey. The other dhampir had vanished, stepping off the rooftop and landing in the alley below. Obsidian stalked along the edge like a cat on the prowl, watching the young disciple slip along the alley.

  Gemma made her way through the streets, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear and flashing a wicked smile at a man who tripped over his feet when he saw her. In the murky London afternoon, that smile brightened the day. She would never be the most beautiful woman in the room, her chin a little too pointed to be classically handsome, and her pillow-shaped mouth too full for the current fashion, but she was eye-catching in a way no other woman could compete with. Vibrancy flowed through every inch of her body, and she made a man feel alive just looking at her. Every glance from those hot-lashed eyes seemed like she'd just thrown down a gauntlet; try and take me. If you dare....

  For a second Obsidian paused, his gaze drawn to her smile. Color vanished from his vision, the world bleeding into shades of black and white as the hunger roused within him, and his heart gave a shuddering pulse. He wanted to dare. He wanted his hands on her, his lips and teeth skating over that creamy skin. He wanted to slam her back against a wall and capture that lying little mouth and make a ruin of her prim gown. He'd never felt like this before—at least, as far as he could recall—and the reckless desire chafed at him.

  Why her?

  Why did his inner darkness stir whenever he thought of her?

  Because she's mine, whispered the darkness within him.

  Then she was gone, and Langley scurried to the edge of the alley, as if to make his move.

  Obsidian stepped off the edge of the roof, gravity catching hold of him. He landed in the alley lightly, his knees bending to absorb the blow and the long edges of his great cloak flaring out around him like wings.

  Langley spun around, relief flooding his expression when he saw whom it was. "Bloody hell, Obsidian. You nearly scared three years off my life."

  "Apologies."

  Obsidian straightened and strode toward him as Langley visibly relaxed. He barely knew the disciple. They were all merely cannon fodder, created for the Master's purposes from the ranks of Lord Balfour's former Falcons. Spies and assassins once, they served the same role now they were a little harder to kill, and far more bloodthirsty with the transition.

  "Are you here to observe whether I pass my test or not?" Langley sneered a little. "The bitch might have eluded the other assassins sent to kill her, but I assure you I shall not fail."

  That's right. This one thought highly of himself.

  "No." Obsidian lunged forward, burying his blade right in the center of the other dhampir's chest. Langley never even saw it coming. Clamping a hand over the other dhampir's mouth to silence any sounds of the skirmish, he swung behind him, wrenching Langley's head up to reveal his vulnerable throat.

  Langley struggled, his dark red-black blood gushing over Obsidian's gloves as he yanked his knife up until it met Langley's sternum. There were many things a dhampir could survive. You needed to cut out their heart to be absolutely certain the evolved craving virus wouldn't re-animate them.

  A choking sound vibrated in Langley's throat as his flailing hand landed on Obsidian's arm. Struck him again. Finally clutched at his sleeve, as if to beg for mercy.

  "Sshh," Obsidian whispered, drawing the other man back into his embrace. "It will all be over soon."

  He made certain of it.

  Langley's hand fell from his sleeve, his weight suddenly slumping against Obsidian as his knife macerated the other dhampir's heart. The breath wheezed out of Langley's lungs.

  "My apologies," he whispered in the younger dhampir's ear as he lowered the body to the ground. "But Gemma Townsend is mine."

  If anyone was going to kill her, it was going to be him.

  The woman who called herself Gemma Townsend had the feeling she was being followed.

  A curious incident, for she herself was following someone.

  And yet, the familiar prickle of being watched itched the back of her neck, and all her senses were on high alert. If her task weren't as important as it was, she'd have laughed at the situation.

  A spy being spied upon. That was the sort of jest that wou
ld have made her dearest friend, Baroness Schröder, laugh.

  Yet now she was out in the field, she couldn't afford to.

  "Where are you?" she whispered to herself, slipping through the thinning crowd of people as she glanced over her shoulder.

  The dreary afternoon fog settled over the buildings like a mantle, people tucking up their collars as they hurried home. Horses’ hooves clopped on the cobblestones, and a steam carriage veered past, hissing a lungful of smoke in her face as she stepped up onto the curb.

  Dozens of people strode the streets, but as she surveyed them with a practiced eye she knew none of them had the vaguest interest in her. In her field of work, she could always spot a person's tells. It had become second nature over the years. Someone loitering—the way she was—or turning to survey a nearby window in sudden curiosity when their mark turned around. Usually a single person hovering just out of the line of sight, and weaving through the crowd, using them as cover.

  Three men jostled past her on the sidewalk. Gemma tucked her basket of posies close to her skirts. She'd blackened a tooth, and her cheeks were stained with soot, her eyebrows thickened with the judicious use of powders. She'd hovered over a bowl of boiling water that morning so her sleek black hair dried into frizzy strands, and pinned it up haphazardly. Nobody glancing at her would take a second look; girls selling flowers were all through this section of Covent Garden.

  The best way to be invisible was to play a common part in plain sight.

  And yet, she was fairly certain someone had made her.

  She scuttled on, trying to keep the Earl of Kylemore in view. At the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, and glanced up as a flicker of movement vanished into the shadows on the nearest roof. Odd. Could have been a pigeon, she supposed, but—

  There.

  Right behind her.

  A shape emerged from the fog and Gemma slipped the knife from her sleeve in a smooth movement, the hilt falling into her gloved palm like an old friend she knew well.

  A hand snatched her elbow, jostling her in the crowd, and Gemma's fist curled around the knife as she moved to strike and—