Mission_Improper

by Bec McMaster

  all of you come in."

  "I had friends as died in the Packenham

  Riots," Kincaid said. "Why should I help you?

  Your Echelon used your Cyclops war machines to

  mow down half the mob that day."

  "A mistake, in hindsight," Malloryn admitted.

  "And you're not helping me. I don't even

  particularly want you on this team. You're a

  hothead and I don't entirely trust you, but you came

  highly recommended by my friend the Duchess of

  Casavian, and I need someone with a particular

  skill set that's hard to find. You fit that

  description."

  "And what’s in it for me?" Kincaid

  demanded.

  "For you? A comfortable wage and the help of

  one of my best inventors for that project you've

  been working upon,” Malloryn replied. "Someone

  who

  has

  recently

  passed

  his

  Bio-mech

  examinations with the Royal Mechanics Society.”

  Kincaid reeled back as if struck and Byrnes

  sipped his blud-wein. Bio-mechanics dealt

  directly with the application of mechanical limbs

  and organs that were fused directly to a man or

  woman’s flesh as if they were one. Oh, there were

  cruder mech limbs in circulation, but only those

  within the Royal Society knew how to deal with

  the process called fusion.

  Which meant that Kincaid needed some sort

  of limb or organ that crude mechwork couldn’t

  cover, and was shocked to realize that Malloryn

  knew of it. For himself though? Or someone he

  knew?

  Bio-mech was ridiculously expensive. If

  Malloryn could gift that so negligently, then what

  else could he offer the rest of them?

  Byrnes's heart raced. Bio-mech, medical

  technology... was there an answer for his mother's

  fate? "And the rest of us? What can you do for us?”

  "You all have something you want and I have

  the means to provide it. But we can discuss that

  later. In private.” Malloryn gestured to the

  mysterious woman at his side, the one in blood red

  silk. "This is my colleague, Isabella Rouchard, the

  Baroness Schröder. She will be in charge of this

  team."

  Charlie Todd stuck his hand in the air.

  "Arguments aside... what team? Why precisely are

  we here? To find the instigators of the riots? That

  was over a year ago."

  Isabella Rouchard leaned on the back of her

  chair, every inch of her thick black hair tamed into

  an elegant chignon. "The queen has tasked

  Malloryn with putting together a team of highly

  skilled participants to discover who is behind

  these incidents that threaten national security. We

  have… information networks, but we need more.

  We need people who can deal with and contain

  threats, and are equipped to both delve directly to

  the heart of a mystery, and then handle it.”

  "Why would you choose us?” Kincaid asked.

  Malloryn shuffled some files on his desk.

  "Don’t assume that you haven’t been thoroughly

  vetted. All of you came recommended to me by

  various members of the Council of Dukes who rule

  this city. I have spies—I don’t need more of them.

  But what I don’t have,” he said, picking up the files

  and gesturing toward Byrnes, "is someone trained

  to investigate.” One of the files hit the desk and

  that gaze turned to Ingrid. "Someone who works

  private commissions to find what others can’t find

  and has ties to the verwulfen community; someone

  who understands the mech world,”—this at

  Kincaid—"someone who knows the rookeries and

  how to steal the eyes from a man’s sockets."

  Charlie Todd. "An inventor trained in detailing

  crime scene investigations." Ava. His hard blue

  gaze turned to Miss Townsend. "And—”

  "Someone you swore you’d never work with

  again,” Gemma Townsend said softly, her

  challenging gaze locked on Malloryn’s.

  There was a moment's pause as the two of

  them stared at each other.

  "Someone experienced in the arts of

  espionage,” Malloryn corrected emotionlessly,

  dropping the final file onto the desk.

  Miss Townsend looked away, as if there was

  far more to it than that.

  Interesting.

  "There are others who have already been

  briefed on the situation,” Malloryn said. "In my

  absence the baroness will be the leader of this

  group and you will report directly to her. Jack

  Fairchild is our resident inventor, whom Miss

  McLaren will be working with, and Herbert will

  handle… security. Anything else?"

  Every single hand in the room went up, but

  Malloryn ignored them as he circled the room and

  gestured to the baroness. "If you would, Isabella.

  It’s easier if I show them."

  The baroness wheeled a screen into place and

  Malloryn flicked a switch on the projector at the

  back of the room.

  Byrnes leaned forward in his chair as a

  photograph appeared: a street, middle class by the

  look of it, with abandoned handcarts and steam

  cabs sitting under a line of washing. He recognized

  the place immediately and that old thrill tickled

  through his veins. Begby Square. An unsolved

  case. There was nothing more interesting than a

  riddle that remained unsolved.

  That alone might convince him to go along

  with this.

  "The Packenham riots were just the beginning.

  In March, an entire street of people vanished near

  Begby Square. Despite Nighthawk assistance not a

  single person has been recovered out of fifty-three.

  Nobody knows where the Begby Square people

  are, or what happened to them. In most of the

  houses dishes lay covered with half-eaten dinners,

  and washing was hung to dry as though it were a

  normal day. Only a single baby remained behind,

  crying in his crib. No blood, minimal signs of

  violence such as scattered dishes, and no tracks or

  scent trail. It all happened within the space of two

  hours, just as evening fell on March sixteenth."

  Malloryn flicked the slide. A sandy arena

  sprang to view, spattered with blackened shadows

  of blood and covered in bodies. "The Devil's Pit,

  beneath the Barking Dog Tavern on the outskirts of

  Whitechapel. The entire crowd was slaughtered,

  and most of the combatants. Nobody knows who

  did it, but the doors were locked from the outside.

  Considering the location we left the scene to

  Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel, to solve. So far,

  he's got nothing. No scent, no tracks, just

  slaughter."

  Byrnes's interest sharpened. He'd heard

  nothing of this, but that was not unusual. The Devil

  of Whitechapel was a force of his own, and had

  been part of the consortium that overthrew the

  prince consort during the revolution. H
e policed

  his own territories with his gang of ruffians, and

  Nighthawks were rarely invited in. Charlie Todd,

  however, didn’t look surprised, and he was one of

  Blade's lieutenants.

  Something caught his attention as Malloryn

  flicked through several slides from the fighting

  pits. "Wait a minute," Byrnes called. "Go back to

  that previous slide. There." He pointed. "That

  black flag painted on the wall, with the letters

  above it... that symbol was on the walls at Begby

  Square."

  "Very good. So it was." Malloryn pressed the

  slides forward. More images, more chaos. "The

  same symbol appears on the nearby walls at the St.

  Andrew’s Church in Holborn, where the local

  congregation was attempting to rebuild the church

  now that the laws against humans practicing

  religion have been relaxed." A photograph showed

  a man crucified outside the burning church. "The

  newly ordained priest, Joseph Cannon. Or should I

  say, the late Reverend Joseph Cannon. The symbol

  also appeared at the abandoned King Street

  enclaves last month, where fourteen mechs lay

  crushed in the machinery. All of them had worked

  there in the past, and there was no reason for them

  to be there once the project was abandoned."

  "Four incidents in London," Byrnes mused.

  "That we know of," Malloryn hastily

  corrected. "Since March this year."

  "Traditionally, a black flag has been a symbol

  of anarchy," Ingrid said with a frown. "What do the

  letters painted above them say?"

  Malloryn flicked hastily through the slides

  until he showed a closer view of the symbol.

  "Sometimes it reads SOG. Sometimes it is simply

  the number zero. At the enclaves, it was a numeral

  three."

  "Which means?" Ingrid asked.

  Malloryn leaned back, crossing his arms over

  his chest. "That's what I am interested in

  discovering. People are growing scared and there

  is a rumor on the streets that the queen's new rule

  isn't so different to the prince consort's. All of the

  progress that the queen and the Council of Dukes

  have made in the past three years to improve the

  city and create peace between the factions and

  species has been obliterated."

  "No scent," Kincaid said. "Slaughter... that

  sounds like a blue blood to me. Any of your pasty-

  faced lords unaccounted for?"

  "No member of the Echelon did this—"

  "How do you know it's not a member of the

  Echelon?" Kincaid demanded.

  "Because information is currency, and I'm the

  type of person who is extremely rich in

  information. No one blue blood could do this.

  "Every time the queen and the Council of

  Dukes make a proclamation—such as the

  reformation of the Anti-Religious Act—someone

  goes out and wreaks havoc against the very thing

  that we are trying to improve. I've seen

  broadsheets stating that the queen rules that people

  can gather at houses of worship again, then goes

  and slaughters the lot of them, just to prove that

  they can't. People are scared," Malloryn said,

  resting his hip on the edge of his desk. "And when

  people become scared, trouble starts to occur.

  "I need to know who is doing this and my

  traditional network isn't coming up with answers.

  In short order, that's why you're all sitting here.

  You have been invited to form a company of elite

  agents to protect the queen and the people of the

  city. Are you in?"

  "What if we're not?" Kincaid's voice

  roughened.

  "I'm fairly certain that Jem Whitlow was your

  cousin, was he not?" Malloryn lifted a folder from

  his desk and flipped through it, though Byrnes was

  fairly certain that Malloryn had the information

  memorized. "Whitlow spent eleven years in the

  King Street enclaves before helping you march on

  the Ivory Tower to cast the prince consort down.

  Imagine that... eleven years in hell, then three

  blissful years of freedom before someone crushes

  him beneath a manufacturing machine—"

  "I know what eleven years of hell in the

  enclaves feel like," Kincaid snapped. "I don't have

  to imagine it."

  "Don't you want to find out who killed him?"

  Malloryn arched a brow.

  Silence. The entire group focused on the burly

  mech.

  "The enclaves are mine," Kincaid finally

  said, his jaw jutting pugnaciously. "I get to hunt the

  bastards as did this."

  "Done." Malloryn gave no sign of satisfaction

  other than a slight heaviness around his eyelids.

  "Everybody else?"

  "Aye," both Byrnes and Ingrid said at the

  same time. They shot each other a sharp look as the

  others echoed them.

  "What do we call ourselves?" Charlie called.

  "Malloryn's Henchmen?" This from Gemma.

  "The Merry Men—and Women," Charlie

  Todd countered.

  "Malloryn’s Misfits?” suggested Gemma

  again.

  Malloryn did not quite roll his eyes. "I'm sure

  you'll all think of something." Grabbing a stack of

  files, he and Isabella began handing them out to

  people. "Byrnes, I know you're familiar with the

  Begby case. I want you back on it."

  Byrnes stared hungrily at the images on the

  screen, the bloody and broken bodies in the

  enclaves. Then he sighed. "It's a cold scene, sir.

  Seven months cold, to be precise."

  "True." Malloryn's eyes glittered. "But these

  disappearances aren't. Same type of scene, same

  kind of mayhem. Happened last night." Sliding a

  folder across the table toward Byrnes, he

  straightened. "We move fast, we keep it quiet, and

  we stop whoever is doing this before the general

  public finds out about it."

  Byrnes dragged the file toward him with his

  fingertips. A case, one that nobody had been able

  to solve last time. Intriguing.

  Byrnes lifted the edge of the folder as

  Malloryn muttered something.

  "Hell, no," Ingrid stated flatly.

  That made him look up. He'd missed

  something.

  "You brought down the Vampire of Drury

  Lane," Malloryn replied. "Your expertise is

  exceedingly valuable, and you and Byrnes should

  make one hell of a team."

  Team. Everything in him went on point. Like

  bloody hell. This was his case. His—

  "I would rather spend the rest of my days

  knitting," Ingrid stated, crossing her arms. "There's

  no way I'll work with Byrnes."

  Byrnes slowly tilted his head to look at her.

  That stubborn mouth was set in a line he

  remembered only too clearly and suddenly his

  brain kicked into gear. A flash of memory cut

  through his emotions: of himself lying naked on his

  bed, finally forced to concede and yell for help

  once he realized he couldn't get free of the
silk

  stockings binding him to the bed. "Sounds like an

  excellent idea," he found himself saying, and

  suddenly he was the recipient of every stare in the

  room.

  "It— What—?" Ingrid demanded. "Are you

  mad? Or drunk? We very nearly killed each other

  last time."

  "Think about it, Ingrid. My experience, my

  skills at deduction married with your strength, and

  your skills at tracking, so much better than mine,"

  Byrnes said, watching her eyes narrow as he laid it

  on thick. Oh yes, my dear. Now you're catching

  on. "Who else could handle such a case?"

  "Anybody in this room."

  "What's wrong?" Byrnes taunted, letting

  silence fill the gap, until the moment had stretched

  out long enough. "Scared?"

  Ingrid's almond-shaped eyes narrowed to thin

  slits. They really were beautiful, though at the

  moment, they were practically incinerating. "Of

  you? I don't think so."

  "Excellent," Malloryn interceded. "Consider

  yourself enlisted, ladies and gentlemen. You're

  now protectors of the realm. I'll give the rest of

  you your own assignments the second these two

  stop arguing with each other, and then I need some

  eyes on the ground at the Venetian Gardens scene.

  Understood?"

  THREE

  LIGHTS FLOODED THE Venetian Gardens, a

  dirigible flooding the scene with sweeping light as

  it hovered over the walled pleasure gardens. It

  was one of the latest improvements to the

  Nighthawks' ability to fight crime, but Byrnes

  personally thought it a waste of taxpayers' money.

  He much preferred an on-foot hunt with the scent of

  a criminal in his nostrils, and pavement under his

  feet.

  Reporters

  hovered

  like

  vultures,

  the

  flashbulbs of their cameras hammering his retinas

  as he tipped his head to the pair of Nighthawks on

  duty at the gates. "Brasham, Copeland. What have

  we got?"

  "Not sure, Byrnes," Copeland said with a

  scowl. "The bloody Duke of Malloryn won't let us

  in, so we've been set to nursemaid the gates until

  his 'elite' unit arrives."

  Byrnes eyed the reporters. "Someone seems

  to think this is a major case. Have you heard

  anything?"

  "Thirty or forty people vanished from the

  Grand Pavilion"—Brasham clicked his fingers

  —"like smoke. The Earl of Carrington was hosting

  some sort of party there. When sunrise started to

  come up, the manager of the gardens realized that

  his blue blood guests ought to be departing soon if