by Bec McMaster
Malloryn's face paled as he strode for the door. "Alert the guards. Search the house. I want everyone out in the gardens looking for him. I'll alert Barrons and leave him to sort the queen's contingent out. He can keep her safe."
They had to get Miss Hamilton back before the Chameleon killed her.
Coldrush Guards swarmed through the Hamiltons’ gardens.
There was no sign of the bride, and Malloryn's voice had turned lethal as he barked orders, though his expression held no outside trace of his turmoil.
Gemma caught a hint of some of the wedding guests’ whispers: What a shock ending to this fiasco of a wedding; Malloryn couldn't even get his bride to the altar; has someone taken her?
Half a dozen of the blasted peacocks were on the balcony, watching proceedings with an amused eye. Some of them even had champagne. Bets were being placed, which made her feel a little uncomfortable, for while COR had opened a betting book on the event, none of them had done it with malicious intentions.
Gemma glared at them. She wasn't going to let Malloryn become a laughingstock. And the poor girl might still be alive.
Think, damn you. You know him best.
The Chameleon liked to take credit for his kills.
He'd begun to send Malloryn a bullet-ridden playing card before them with a clue as to his target.
He wants to taunt Malloryn.
Taking Miss Hamilton was nothing more than an insult. A means to strike at Malloryn, as if to say, I can take anyone you care to protect.
He knew Malloryn.
He knew the day's program, and the house.
It's always an inside job....
And it was clear Miss Hamilton was no longer on the premises. Gemma's head turned, and she slipped to the gate at the edge of the garden. There'd been guards here earlier, but perhaps they'd joined the search?
The scent of blood caught her attention.
A minute amount, but any sign of it might be a clue.
Gemma strode into the streets. A single dark crimson droplet of blood marred the cobbles. It seemed surreal to find an area of Kensington so devoid of traffic, but Malloryn had insisted the streets be cleared for half a mile around, what with the queen in residence.
Guards loomed at the roadblock to the north of the street.
But Gemma's head turned south, her nostrils flaring as she followed the trail of blood.
A single drop splashed here and there; dark enough to be a blue blood with a low CV level. She tracked it to a narrow lane, where she found a man stashed behind a pile of refuse, stripped of his clothes. The pale linen of his undergarments was stark white. Someone bleached them, which argued for certain uniform standards. His hair was close-cropped, almost military style. Clean-shaven. Polished Hessian boots. Blood dripped from his ear where someone had most likely stabbed a stiletto directly into his brain. Some of the blood was thickened, congealing, which gave her a timeline.
A Coldrush guard.
This was how the Chameleon got in.
She started putting events together in her mind. The Chameleon took the guard out first, as cleanly as he could, and dressed in his uniform before returning to the guard's post. There should have been a second guard, but she had no idea where he'd gone. Dead, perhaps, the body hidden.
The guests started arriving.
Everyone retired to the ballroom for the ceremony.
And that was when he made his move.
Discarding the decorative overlay of her bustle, Gemma hurried back to the foggy street. All her gowns had been modified to her specifications to make it easier to move within them. A froth of gold lace spilled through the two slits on either sides of her skirt, a subtle display of gorgeous fabric that disguised the fact the slits gave her room to move. One second she could be ready for the wedding of the year, the next, able to kick a man in the face.
Gemma drew her pistol out of her reticule, as well as a curious brass gauntlet she'd stolen from Jack's laboratory. He didn't want her testing it yet, as he hadn't quite gotten the power pack sorted, but she'd been preparing to protect the queen and needed every edge she could get. Slipping the ultraviolet illuminator gauntlet on her hand, she locked it into place.
Time was running out. Miss Hamilton might be killed at any moment. Curse it. She wasn't wearing one of the aural communicators they used on jobs, having removed it for the ceremony. She had her two favorite sai strapped to her thighs, a knife up her sleeve, the pistol, a garrote in her necklace, and a decorative stiletto pinned in her hair, but she was woefully unprepared for this.
Where? Where would he have taken Miss Hamilton?
Gemma's heart raced as she surveyed the area. A cricket ground resided in the distance, the ornate gates of a cemetery, and a dozen small residences....
Malloryn. It all had to do with Malloryn.
It was as if something drew her toward the cemetery.
Instinct, perhaps.
Brompton Cemetery. One of the Magnificent Seven, and home to a grave she knew far too well. Catherine Tate. The young woman Malloryn had allegedly given his heart to when he was younger, though he'd only ever spoken of it once.
He still visited occasionally.
What were the chances the duke's fiancée was stolen from her home on her wedding day, and the blood trail led toward the cemetery Malloryn's first love was interred within?
"You son of a bitch," she whispered.
There was too much poetic justice for it to have been mere happenstance. Gemma started running.
How were the dhampir and the Chameleon connected?
Everything they've done has been with Malloryn in mind. Why not the Chameleon?
She was more convinced than ever of a link between Obsidian, his fellow dhampir, and the Chameleon.
Obsidian was an assassin; he'd shot her once without a flicker of remorse on his face.
He'd been in Malloryn's original safe house and killed his fellow dhampir, Zero, before she could succumb to Malloryn's questioning.
He'd worked for Lord Balfour, Malloryn's greatest enemy, before Malloryn cut the spymaster's throat and killed him.
What if the real Chameleon had been closer to her than she'd ever expected?
No. No. He'd been back and forth to Russia several times upon Balfour's whims. Surely Obsidian couldn't be responsible for the fifteen deaths the Chameleon claimed. She would have to check the timeline and see if she could place Obsidian out of the country when one of the assassinations occurred.
And Carlyle? How did he fit?
Too many puzzle pieces, not enough of the pattern to see.
But she couldn't deny there were links between her ex-lover and the assassin she was hunting.
And he hadn't trusted her enough to reveal a damned thing.
Gemma passed beneath the arched gateway, drawing the second pistol she always carried. It made a loud sound in the stillness of the fog as she drew back the hammer on both of them. Heart pounding, she moved between the colonnades that led toward the domed chapel ahead, scanning the graves and memorials that surrounded her.
Too many places for the Chameleon to hide. It made her skin crawl being out in the open like this. During a sunny day it was almost peaceful here, but with a malicious layer of fog serving as ground cover there was an eerie sensation that chilled her spine.
The scent of blood drew her like a lodestone toward the chapel, gravel crunching under her feet. Each memorial seemed to float in the fog like a disembodied figure, stark angels staring at her with empty eyes.
Sound whispered to her right. Gemma spun, staring through the pistol's sights, her pulse suddenly hammering.
Nothing moved.
But as her vision finally resolved, she could make out a yawning black crevice leading down into the bowels of the earth.
The perfect place to hide a not-quite-duchess.
The perfect place for an ambush.
Catacombs existed below the colonnade. A pair of marble angels watched her pass by, stained by the repeated atten
tions of the local pigeons. Gemma crept down the sloping path leading directly to the mouth of the catacombs, fog swirling away from her skirts. Two pillars stood on either side of the door, and she could smell blood again, as if someone lured her into the shadows like some gothic version of Hansel and Gretel.
This doesn't make me nervous at all.
Movement stirred behind her.
Gemma spun, tracking the darkness. Only the swirling fog indicated someone else was out there. All her senses went on alert, the color leaching out of her vision as it sharpened. She stepped between two headstones, using them as cover, crossing one foot carefully over the other as she searched the shadows for an assailant.
The tiny hairs down the back of her neck prickled.
Behind her.
Gemma spun around, both pistols locked on the shadowy figure emerging from the fog.
Pale brown hair tumbling to his collar, the familiar harsh slant of his cheekbones.... The breath burst out of her as Obsidian appeared, gloved hands held in the air. Dressed entirely in black as if he melted from out of the shadows themselves, he strode toward her with an intense stare. Gemma's heart skipped a beat; a combination of the danger of the situation, and a sudden jolt of something she couldn't name.
"Are you insane?" she whispered hoarsely. "What are you doing here?"
I nearly shot you.
His pale gaze raked the shadows of the graveyard, and he pressed a finger to his lips. "You shouldn't be here," he mouthed.
A horrible suspicion dawned in her breast. "Please tell me you're not here for the reason I think you are."
He moved like a sudden blur, capturing her from behind and slamming a hand over her mouth. Gemma found herself hauled back against that hard body, her skirts crumpling between them.
Instinct almost made her pull the trigger, but she froze instead. He wouldn't hurt her. He'd gone to great lengths not to hurt her.
Instead, she softened against his chest, her heart pounding madly in her ears as Obsidian drew her back into the shadows of the catacombs. Somewhere out there in the foggy evening, something else moved.
They weren't alone.
Chapter 19
Curse her to hell.
Obsidian rested his back against the brick wall of the catacombs, the rapid thump of Gemma's heart echoing in the darkness.
This was the worst scenario he'd ever imagined, with Silas moving out there in the cemetery, almost invisible in the fog. If Silas saw Gemma he wouldn't hesitate to shoot her. And Silas was the only dhampir Obsidian wasn't certain he could actually kill.
Gemma wriggled, her skirts pressed against his groin.
"Don't. Move," he breathed in her ear.
She seemed to understand.
Seconds stretched out. Minutes. The heat of her body began to warm him, and the faint scent of her perfume imprinted itself on his skin. All he could hear was the steady thump-thump of her racing heart, and the sound of it began to call the darkness within him. Shadows deepened as his eyesight became clearer. He rarely saw the world in color anymore, for the hunger was always just beneath the surface, but something about Gemma called to another part of him. Color drained back into the world, until he could make out her vibrant, berry-stained skirts.
The pink of her lips.
The creamy perfection of her skin.
His gaze locked on the pulse in her throat, and there was a rush of blood through his cock as his teeth began to ache. The diamond-shaped canines had grown in several years after his initial transformation, as if to give him a predatory edge. Some blue bloods of the Echelon used to file their teeth into points, but for a dhampir they were a natural enhancement.
Gemma's head tilted to the side as she glanced back over her shoulder at him. One eyebrow arched in pointed exasperation as if to say, really?
His fists clenched in her skirts as he whispered, "I haven't drank today."
"And this is definitely the right situation," she breathed back, wriggling her bottom a little, as if to confirm he was indeed erect.
That was the problem with being dhampir. Or perhaps it was merely Gemma. "It's always the right situation."
The hunger never truly went away anymore, but he'd thought he'd had a leash on it until she walked back into his life.
"There is a young woman missing. And one of your brethren took her." Her eyes flashed murder as she turned around, her hand laid flatly against his chest. "Please tell me your companion isn't the goddamn Chameleon."
"He isn't the Chameleon."
The pistol wavered against his chest, and he saw indecision flood through her. "You know who it is."
"Gemma...."
"Don't you lie to me."
"Fine." His expression tightened. "I won't lie. But this is one fight you are better off staying out of."
"I have to stop him," she said.
"Nyet. If you walk out there, you'll die."
"If I don't, then Miss Hamilton will die."
"Better her than you," he said.
Shouts echoed.
Tension slid through him as he turned toward the mouth of the catacombs.
"No," Gemma blurted, slamming her hand to his chest and forcing him back against the wall. "They're my friends."
Yesterday swam between them.
It was the exact same thing she'd said then, and he'd thought she'd chosen them.
Until she stepped between Malloryn's gun and his fallen body.
He looked down at her. Black curls danced around her defiant face, and something long dormant warmed within his frozen chest. Gemma would defy the world for those she loved, no matter what it cost her. And somehow, she'd decided he was important enough to be protected.
If her friends were out there, then so was Silas....
How the hell was he going to get Gemma away from here? She wore that mulish expression he knew so well. If he tried to throw her over his shoulder again, he had a feeling she'd try and castrate him.
"You're not prepared to face Silas," he told her. "He's not like me, Gemma. He won't spare your life. Your friends are here. Let them rescue—"
"I'm sorry," Gemma whispered.
"For what?"
A sudden sharp, lancing pain went through his side. Obsidian grabbed her arm, but a wave of weakness went through him. She'd stabbed him just under the ribs with a tiny dart she'd pulled from her bracelet.
"Just a little hemlock," she murmured, bracing his weight against her body. "You'll be able to move again in a couple of minutes."
"Gemma!" His legs weren't working, a chill spreading out from the area she'd injured. As the poison worked through his system, it took his strength with it. "Damn it."
Obsidian went down on one knee, barely able to twitch his toes. His fingers curved around her arm, locking tight, but she pried them off.
"Well, what do you know?" Gemma whispered, catching him under the arms and hauling him into the darkness of the catacombs. "It seems all a blue bloods strengths—and weaknesses—are exacerbated when one is made into a dhampir. I'm sorry. But I can't let him kill an innocent girl."
Obsidian slumped to the ground, barely able to twitch his little finger. Gemma. He tried to speak, but even his throat muscles were paralyzed. Don't. Damn you, don't go out there.
The last he saw of her was her vibrant dark pink skirts as she vanished up the ramp into the cemetery.
Lights flashed in the foggy cemetery as Gemma scanned the darkness. She heard voices; Coldrush Guards. Byrnes. Perhaps even Malloryn.
Her heart started beating faster. The dhampir she'd seen was out there somewhere, she knew it. And every beacon of light and loud shout betrayed the presence of those trying to rescue Miss Hamilton. It would keep her target's attention while she moved like a shadow in the night.
A foggy, poorly lit night.
Perfect grounds for an ambush.
Yes. But which one of you is going to walk into the trap? He's a dhampir.
Taking Obsidian down with hemlock when he was distracted was one thi
ng; managing to kill a creature that was faster, stronger, and invulnerable to all but a thrust straight to the heart quite another.
And this one wouldn't hesitate to harm her.
Gemma powered the illuminating gauntlet on her hand, feeling the slight hum of its vibration. An untried prototype, it might be the only edge she had in this fight, though the enormous covered eye in the center of the gauntlet had only enough power to give her one blast.
"All I need," she whispered, setting out into the night.
Where would he have taken Miss Hamilton?
The faintest scent of blood had her turning deeper into the cemetery, away from the searchers and toward the end of the colonnade.
The sensation of being watched raised every hair on her body. No sign of anything moving out there, though the fog was thicker on the ground and sound was muted. Could be just her mind playing tricks on her. Gemma jumped as an owl suddenly hooted nearby. Her pulse rocketed through her veins, and she forced herself to swallow. The surge of energy through her veins was both a boon and a curse. She felt ready to leap right out of her skin.
The scent of blood grew stronger, and she suffered a horrible moment of doubt as her footsteps quickened. Please let me be in time.
The fog ahead of her stirred, sweeping away from a tall memorial as if someone drew the theatre curtains on a stage. Movement. Gemma raised her pistol, creeping forward with slow careful steps. A shape was beginning to form, slumped against the memorial, the scent of blood growing stronger—
A pale flash of movement leaped toward her from the side, and Gemma spun and hammered three shots directly into the blur with her armor-piercing bullets.
The dhampir vanished behind a headstone, but she heard him wheeze and swear under his breath. "Damn you. That was me favorite coat."
It threw her off.
"What?"
Shouts echoed nearby as the searchers heard her gunfire. Gemma circled the headstone, only to find nothing there.
A faint laugh echoed behind her. "I begin to see why Obsidian has a soft spot for you, Miss Townsend. Brave, beautiful, and intelligent. What man could resist? It's a pity you've also caught the eye of Ghost. But he doesn't want your heart. Just your head. Thinks you've caused enough problems, turnin' our best assassin against him."
