by Bec McMaster
"We cannot afford to have a fraction within our cause at this moment."
"And you cannot afford to melt his brains out of his ears," the doctor countered sharply. "Dhampir heal from almost anything, including the cerebral cortex resectioning. Eventually. But his last reconditioning put him down for nearly three days before he could be used again. He needs time to recover between bouts. I won't do it."
"Won't do it?" Ghost lashed out, capturing the good doctor by the throat.
Richter kicked ineffectually as Ghost hauled him into the air, his notebook and spring pen clattering to the floor as his hand lashed out.
Obsidian's lashes fluttered half-closed as he watched it all unfold emotionlessly.
There was something wrong with his conditioning. He'd suspected it for weeks.
It had something to do with Gemma Townsend.
Whatever the doctor did to him, his failsafe's began to collapse the second he'd laid eyes upon her.
Even now his head began to ache right behind his left eye, as if the mere thought of her shattered something inside his brain.
One last constraint, perhaps.
The conditioning is necessary, the doctor had told him.
It helps to control the rage inside you, Ghost had assured him.
Don't you want to forget the pain?
Don't you want to make it all go away?
Obsidian didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know what the hell he believed in anymore. Too many patchwork memories.
Who are you? The Wraith? Obsidian? The thought slithered through his back brain like a sibilant whisper.
Or...
She'd called him Dmitri.
And he had a sudden flash of remembrance of a warm body in his arms, Hollis's laughter in his ear, as he tumbled her onto a fur rug in front of a blazing fire, careless of the world around them. Careless of anything other than the feel of her skirts crumpling beneath his hand, and the smooth kiss of her skin beneath his fingertips....
The pendulum swung again as his lungs expanded sharply, but Obsidian was the only one who noticed.
"It doesn't... matter—" the doctor choked out, "—what you do to... m-me. Without me—"
Ghost let him collapse against the bench, where the doctor sputtered and coughed, grasping at his throat.
"Without me," Richter wheezed, "you can't... control them. Lord Balfour... gave me... jurisdiction over... these matters." He pushed himself up into a sitting position. "If you push the reconditioning too far, then you will kill them. And then... you will deal with Balfour's rage."
Obsidian stared thoughtfully at the doctor. The mere thought of Richter's rooms made him flinch, as if some part of his subconscious knew more about what the doctor did to him, than his conscious mind. But the man seemed to be arguing on his behalf.
"So be it," Ghost spat. "But if he slips his leash, then you shall be the one who earns Balfour's wrath. Not I."
What were they truly doing to him with the reconditioning?
Obsidian felt like dozens of pieces of memory floated around him like obnoxious jigsaw puzzle pieces, refusing to slot into place. He was missing something. Some important piece of the puzzle that would make all those memories become whole.
And it had to do with Russia.
Gemma held the key to his past.
To his identity.
Could he trust her to tell the truth? He barely recalled St. Petersburg. Only fire. A pair of scorching kisses. A smoking pistol.
And the sound of someone screaming.
Someone who might have been him.
Gemma Townsend is a liar and a seductress, Ghost's whisper taunted him.
But as he watched Ghost quit the room in a fury, while the doctor trembled and cursed under his breath, Obsidian suddenly wondered whether he could trust Ghost either.
Chapter 11
"Tell me about Russia."
Gemma paused with her glass of blud-wein at her lips. She should have known he'd had ulterior motives when he brought the small table into her observatory.
"What precisely were you interested in knowing? It's a lovely place, if one likes snow, vodka, ornate palaces, and bloodthirsty scheming princes."
"No." Obsidian stilled, his silver-tipped lashes fluttering low over his eyes. "You claim my recollection of what occurred in Russia is wrong. Tell me about us. About the first time we met."
Us.
Gemma's smile melted off her face, and she swallowed. "What would you like to know?" she asked carefully, watching the shift of intense emotion flicker across his face.
"You say you loved me. I find it difficult to believe. I was working for the enemy—"
"I wasn’t aware of that," she pointed out, "until it was too late."
"And yet, you were a trained spy, one of Malloryn’s best. Love is a weapon to a woman like you. I find it difficult to believe you fell prey to it."
Gemma set her glass down. "Do you think me entirely immune to the lighter emotions? I spent my entire childhood locking away everything I dared to feel before it could betray me. It didn’t mean I didn’t feel those emotions, it just meant I didn’t dare reveal them. When Malloryn showed me a new world those old habits stayed with me, but sometimes I succumb to certain weaknesses. Sometimes I make mistakes."
Her longing to be accepted and loved had been her downfall more than once.
"So I was a mistake? "
"Clearly," she snapped. "I thought what we shared in Russia was real. And you nearly killed me. Lesson learned. Love is a weakness that shouldn’t exist for people like us."
Vibrating with anger, she turned her face abruptly away, before she could reveal too much. She should have mocked him. Love? Of course, what I felt wasn’t real. It was all a game. But the very concept irritated something within her.
She felt strangely defensive.
"Your childhood?" Obsidian asked softly, setting one of his knives down and reaching for the other. The scent of oil on the rag in his hand was quite overwhelming. "From what Ghost has told me, you were training to be a Falcon before you defected to Malloryn’s side."
"I didn’t defect, so much as I was thrown away."
"Oh."
"It’s a long story—"
"We have the entire night ahead of us."
Gemma sighed. She needed him to start trusting her, but this felt like scratching the scab of an old wound.
"My mother sold me to the Falcons when I was a little girl. There was a school up near the border of Scotland, ostensibly a boarding school. I cried myself to sleep every night for a month, before an older girl woke me one night with a knife to my throat and told me if she caught me sniveling again, she'd silence me forever.
"Then the classes started. Working with a knife; any sort of rifle or pistol; poisons; forgery; dancing; lock-picking; etiquette; flirtation; strangling a man with your bare hands….
"Every year from the age of ten, we faced our year-end tests, where we were given the name of another student in our class and told to either kill them—or be killed. Those that survived graduated the year level. By the time I reached my final year, there were barely twenty of us left in the class, and you didn’t dare make friends." She’d learned that lesson when she was twelve and Lizzie picked her name out of the hat.
"It’s one thing to be trained as a child assassin, but the Falcons take only the best. To ‘graduate’ you're given the name of someone to kill. Succeed and you are one of them. Fail and you are dead. I was the first to be granted a name, and it was Malloryn’s."
Gemma took an unsteady breath. "I knew he was the new head of his house, recently risen to the duchy, but little beyond that. I studied him for weeks. Watched his house, watched his every move. And one night I broke into his bedroom and waited for him. He staggered in around six in the morning, and I put the pistol to his head and... hesitated. One second of uncertainty changed my life forever. It was one thing to kill for survival during our year-end tests, quite another to ruthlessly murder someone. It’s the first
time…." Her voice trailed off. "I always struggled with that instinct. Malloryn used the moment to disarm me, and turned my own pistol on me. I was lying on my back on the floor, certain this was the end, when he lowered the pistol. He offered me a chance to work for him, instead."
Gemma would never forget that night.
"You had me," the duke had said coldly, staring at her along the line of the pistol. "Why didn't you pull the trigger?"
She hadn't known how to answer. All her training prepared her for interrogation, but her mind refused to work with death staring her in the face. "I don't know. I didn't.... I just...."
And Malloryn lowered the pistol as Gemma started shaking violently.
He checked the pistol, examined the bullets. "You're a Falcon. Or training to be one."
She'd nodded.
"How old are you?"
"Nearly sixteen."
And then Malloryn knelt in front of her, with the pistol held in a slack grip between his thighs. "You do realize you were never expected to succeed? They meant for you to die here. They wanted me to kill you."
"How do you know that?"
He'd given her a thin smile. "Because I know things. And I know who sent you."
"That seems convenient for Malloryn," Obsidian said. "An ex-Falcon who served Balfour and might know some of his secrets…. Of course he granted you mercy."
"He saved my life," Gemma declared, suddenly infuriated. "Malloryn was the first person who ever looked at me and saw something worth fighting for—and no, I am not so foolish as to think it a sense of sudden altruism. He gained something from our bargain too, but he gave me a chance, Obsidian. That’s more than I can say for Lord Balfour and his Falcons."
"You bear a grudge against Balfour?"
“I hated him. The night Malloryn killed him was the best night of my life," Gemma replied. "He deserves to rot for what he did to me."
And to all those poor children who were buried in unmarked graves at Falconridge.
Obsidian swished the rag over the knife in his hands, suddenly giving it his full attention. "And then Malloryn sent you to Russia. It must have irritated him greatly to see one of his most loyal agents betray him with the enemy."
Gemma pursed her lips. "He was angry, yes."
Disappointed, mostly.
And it was the disappointment that stung.
"Tell me about Russia. Tell me about us. From your perspective."
"So you can mock me?"
"So I can ascertain the truth of what happened. You were right. Something about Russia doesn’t quite add up, but I’m not certain who is lying to me. You. Or Ghost."
He believed her?
Gemma looked at him sharply, but there was no sign of any inner turmoil on his face. He simply continued oiling the blade he was polishing.
Perhaps she wasn’t the only one hiding behind a mask.
"Sergey was my mark," Gemma’s voice softened a little as she saw it all. "We were there ostensibly to secure the alliance between the Tzarina and the prince consort, though the treaty was Lord Balfour's idea and hence, Malloryn wished to prevent it. Malloryn instructed me to get close to Sergey to discover which of the empress's granddaughters she was favoring as next in line for the throne. There was talk Catherine had begun to enter the Fade, though she'd been in seclusion for so long, nobody truly knew.
"As Master of the Imperial Ravens, and the new Prince of Tsaritsyn, Sergey had her favor, and was said to be vying for the hand of one of her granddaughters. If anyone knew Catherine’s preference, it would be him. He had one weakness. He liked women and frequently flitted from mistress to mistress. I'd done my research, and planned everything, down to our very meeting. Sergey preferred curvaceous blondes who rode well, hunted, and gave him a challenge. I fit the brief. It should have been easy."
"But?"
"But." Her gaze lifted to his, and even after all this time she couldn't stop herself from taking a swift, shallow intake of breath. "The one thing I hadn't accounted for was you."
Then....
The woman who called herself Hollis Beechworth, took a deep breath as the Duke of Malloryn led her to the top of the staircase in the Winter Palace.
A servant appeared out of nowhere offering a glass of champagne, which she accepted.
"Are you ready?" Malloryn murmured, surveying the enormous ballroom as if he owned it.
"Seek. Enamor. Destroy," Hollis told him in return, with a sultry lift of her shoulder and a saucy smile. "It seems simple to me."
Malloryn gave her an astute look. This was her first official mission for him.
Oh, there'd been many other small tasks. Pretending to be other people, luring targets into admitting a particular bit of information, a little bit of break and entering, forging certain notes, taking transcriptions of others.... All done in the shadows of night, where her gift for recall helped her excel. She could read a page once and manage to remember almost everything on it hours later.
But this was the first time Malloryn had ever asked her to play a role in public.
She felt almost giddy with the thrill of it; of finally being able to repay him for sparing her life all those years ago.
"There's Sergey Grigoriev," Malloryn murmured, his glance flickering across the room. "I want you to get close to him and discover what he knows of the Empress's condition, and where her familial affections lie."
Hollis drained the glass of champagne, watching the enigmatic stranger across the room smiling like a shark. Tall. Handsome. Dressed all in black, with an ornate golden Orthodox cross hanging against his black coat. "He's mine."
The press of Malloryn's hand on the small of her back stilled her descent.
"Be careful," he said, his expression unblinking. "The Blood Court is a dangerous place, and there are rumors Grigoriev murdered his uncle, aunt and younger cousins for the title he now holds. He's a dangerous player in this game, Hollis."
"Careful is my middle name," she protested.
Malloryn gave her an arched brow.
"I won't fail you."
Then she swept down the stairs on his arm, aware of all the eyes turning to survey her.
Miss Hollis Beechworth. Malloryn's young cousin. Here to potentially cement an alliance between the British Empire and Russia, by marriage, if nothing else.
A simple role, helped by the seclusion of the real Hollis Beechworth, who despised Malloryn.
They were introduced, and Malloryn set his shark's smile in place as he swept her into the crush of silk organza.
Circling the room, she nodded at one Russian aristocrat, and laughed as another bumped into her with a smile that showed a little too much teeth. Hollis made light commentary as she was introduced to dozens of people, responding in limited Russian.
Malloryn caught her eye, and tipped his head.
Time to roll the die.
Slipping another glass of champagne from the servant's tray, Hollis headed in a meandering path toward Sergey.
He stood in a coterie of elegant gentleman, his gaze flashing across her as she swayed toward him. Then back, clearly enamored with her appearance. Time to cast the lure.
Shoulders back, she caught the eye of the strapping officer beside Sergey, then glanced beneath her lashes and moved toward him, focusing all her attention upon him. Out of the corner of her vision she caught a brief flicker of Sergey frowning, and smiled inwardly.
In her experience, men dreamed of what they couldn't have. And powerful men wanted what other men had. He was used to being fawned over, but he liked to do the chasing himself.
The bait was cast.
The officer seemed startled by her attention. His mustache quivered when she smiled at him, and he took a startled drink of his champagne, his gold medallions gleaming in the candlelight.
She was almost there when a tall, dark blot of shadow stepped in her path.
Hollis blinked as she looked up—and up—into gray eyes the color of stormy seas. For a second all she could see were his thick lash
es, tipped with blond, and the faint crease between his brows. Her breath caught. The newcomer wore strict black from head-to-toe, but it only served to highlight his handsome features.
"You seem lost. May I assist you?" he asked in Russian.
"Pardon," she replied in French. "My Russian is a little rusty."
A blatant lie.
At least some of her wits were still with her.
"As is my French," he replied, in slightly accented English, and graced her with a smile that made a thrill run through her.
Good grief. Whoever he was, he mustn’t smile often, for the results would be catastrophic. Women all across the ballroom would swoon, and then there’d be bloodshed, as the Blood nobles looked to see who’d caught their eye. Hollis realized she was staring, and swiftly gathered herself.
You’ve seen handsome men before. Focus.
"You’re with the English delegation."
"Lady Hollis Beechworth," she replied, blushing at will.
"A dance, Lady Beechworth?"
Damn him. Hollis pasted a smile on her face, though she noted the sudden intensity in Sergey's eyes as he glanced at the way their hands interlocked. Instantly, she changed directions, her smile softening, becoming warmer as she stared up into those intense gray eyes. "I should be delighted.... Though I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your name."
"Captain Lieutenant Dmitri Zhukov." He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, a glint of humor warming the arctic depths of his irises. At the very last moment, he deftly turned her hand, his lips finding the inside of her wrist instead and his gaze boldly locked upon hers.
A faint fleeting gesture, but suddenly it sucked all the air out of the room.
She was well-versed in the art of court etiquette.
And the language of the blue blood world.
A kiss to the back of the hand? How lovely to make your acquaintance.
A kiss to the fingertips? I desire to make more of your acquaintance.
But a kiss to the inside of a woman's wrist?
I intend to make you mine, that gesture said, and while he wouldn't be the first man who'd ever tried to claim her thusly, the heated look in his eyes as he did it sent a lash of intrigued interested through her.
