You Only Love Twice (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 3)

by Bec McMaster

  Obsidian's head turned toward the noise in the study. "You knew I'd come."

  And he'd staged an argument so Obsidian would think the way was clear.

  A dangerous man.

  He'd never been so careless before, but the thought of Gemma in danger obliterated his natural caution.

  "I was hoping you would have her," Malloryn said, then lowered the dartgun completely.

  "How much blood was there?"

  "Minimal. They struck Gemma over the head, according to the baroness, then turned the bludgeon upon her."

  "When?"

  "Four hours ago. I just received the message."

  "What did the assailant look like?"

  Malloryn arched a brow. "Look in the mirror. He was one of yours. Where would he take her? What would he intend to do with her?"

  Obsidian froze.

  It could be dozens of places. Balfour had operations all over London; little terrorist cells quietly at work, unaware of each other.

  But if it had been Ghost or one of the acolytes who'd taken her, she'd have been dead in the street.

  Silas.

  His head turned unerringly toward his brother's preferred stalking grounds. He had to move quickly. Balfour had insisted upon putting a bullet through her heart, and then staging her for Malloryn to find, but Silas might not do the job himself.

  Ghost wanted that pleasure, which meant he had a window of several hours if Ghost was to be the one who pulled the trigger.

  She might already be dead.

  No.

  Obsidian took a step back, toward the window, unwilling to waste anymore time.

  The dartgun tracked him instantly.

  "If you shoot me," he mocked, "then your chances of getting her back slim dramatically."

  "Damn it." Malloryn jerked his finger off the trigger. "Where are you going? Where is she? Tell me where they'd take her—"

  "I don't follow your orders."

  "If we don't work together—"

  "I'll get her back," he promised, as he slipped over the sill. "Just stay out of my way. You're not my ally, Malloryn."

  "No?" Malloryn shot him one last dangerous smile. "Just how do you think this ends? There's no hope you'll turn her—your side wants her dead. And Gemma believes in what we're doing here. This is not merely a game for her. Perhaps she loves you, but I know her heart. She will never betray her cause, not even for you. Not even for love."

  His eyes narrowed, the truth ringing in the duke's voice.

  Malloryn offered him a faint nod, man to man. "And she won't run. Gemma's sense of loyalty is one of her greatest assets. So it seems you are left with a dilemma. There's a part of me that will never forgive you for what you did to her in Saint Petersburg. I don't even know if I trust you. But the only chance you ever have of being with her is to form an alliance with me. And I might be prepared to overlook certain past indiscretions in exchange for everything you know about the enemy's operation."

  Their eyes met.

  The duke still didn't know who he was facing.

  And it was somewhat telling that he was planning on letting Obsidian go to save Gemma's life, rather than keeping him here to ferret out every little secret he might know.

  "Think about it," Malloryn said softly as he lowered the dartgun. "Now go and get her back before it’s too late."

  Obsidian said nothing as he leaped down into the street.

  He would deal with Malloryn's offer later.

  Chapter 22

  Gemma blinked awake, her head pounding as though she'd been into Byrnes's blud-wein. The entire cabinet of it. The world seemed to split into two, her vision pitching sideways before she righted herself.

  Forcing herself to straighten, she closed her eyes and breathed through her nose until she'd regained her balance. This time, the world didn't sway when she opened her eyes. Hoorah for the craving virus.

  She forced herself to take stock of her situation.

  Bound to a rickety chair in the middle of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Pigeons cooing in the rafters. Dust motes swirling in the patches of light that streamed through the barely boarded-up windows. Across the room, a guard slumped in a chair.

  Somehow she was still alive.

  The last thing she remembered was—

  Isabella's eyes widening. The dhampir. He'd hit her from behind, and now...

  Now she was here.

  She'd been expecting a ditch, if she were honest. Or to not wake at all. Were they seeking to prolong her death? Or was her attacker fetching this Ghost that Obsidian spoke about?

  Or was it a trap? She could vaguely recall Isabella babbling about Malloryn thinking of her as a little sister.

  They'd failed to kill his fiancée.

  Perhaps she was next?

  I have a suggestion, Gemma, old girl, how about we consider these questions when we're as far away from here as possible?

  She was fairly certain she had a concussion.

  Gemma squirmed. Knife in her boot, mysteriously missing. Thigh holsters gone. Nothing up her sleeves. No jewelry.

  Good grief. Her favorite stiletto was still in her hair. How the devil had they taken everything else and missed that?

  And they must have cut her thigh holsters off her, which was quite vexing. They'd been custom made, curse it. Did they have any idea how much she'd paid for those damned holsters?

  The chair first.

  Her ropes next.

  And then the guard.

  Gemma's gaze focused on the solitary guard slumping in a chair against the wall, his chin nodding onto his chest. For a second there were two of him, then she blinked and her vision cleared again. This might be a bit of a problem. His hair was the color of bleached bone, and his skin maggot-pale. Dhampir? Or a blue blood well into the Fade?

  And just what sort of condition was she in?

  "Hullo," she called, snagging his attention. "May I trouble you for something to drink?"

  Her mouth did taste like several of the pigeons overhead had made good use of it, but honestly, she just needed to lure him closer.

  The dhampir jerked his head up as if embarrassed to be caught napping on the job. He looked young. And suspicious. "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

  "What are they afraid of?" she asked. "I appear to be tied to a chair."

  Completely helpless. She batted big, innocent eyes at him.

  "You killed two of my brothers. I know what you're capable of."

  Hmm. The two dhampir Obsidian had dispatched. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Please. You can point a gun at me. I'm just so thirsty."

  He considered her request, then reached into his coat and produced a battered leather flask. Dhampir thirst was much stronger than a blue blood's, so she'd been counting on him having one.

  He avoided the patches of sunlight that gilded the floor, wincing at their brightness as he moved closer. The middle of the day by the look of it. Somewhere up there, some god was smiling upon her. Unscrewing the flask, he drew his pistol and then stared at her.

  "I promise I won't bite," she said, with what she knew was her most becoming smile. "You're the one with the teeth."

  The dhampir held the flask to her lips and the pistol to her temple. His nostrils flared nervously. "I'm not supposed to kill you yet. But if you move a single muscle...."

  "I understand."

  The taste of blood filled her mouth, and Gemma's nerves relaxed as the hunger whispered through her veins. No point in wasting it, and it would assist with her healing. Even now, her vision was becoming a little clearer, though the back of her head still throbbed.

  "Enough," he murmured after she'd drunk her fill. He tipped the flask away from her mouth.

  She let some of the blood dribble down her chin, as if he'd surprised her. It splashed across her breasts, and his gaze jerked unconsciously lower.

  Gemma kicked the pistol out of his hand, and then slammed her heel into his knee. Shoving herself into the air, she threw hers
elf backward, smashing the chair to pieces and flipping to her feet. The suddenly loose rope sloughed from her wrist, and Gemma wasted no time. She had a sharpened stake from the chair in her hand, and she slammed it through his chest as he threw himself at her.

  It all happened in an instant.

  The young dhampir gasped, his arms wrapping around her and his weight sending her staggering backward. Gemma angled the thrust right up beneath his sternum, knowing she hit the heart. She worked it a little deeper as he coughed, black blood spraying across her cheek.

  "Never presume a pistol gives you the upper hand," she whispered, but the lesson came too late as the light faded from his eyes.

  Gemma eased his body to the floor. She almost felt a little guilty. He barely had fangs. Just these little baby canines with the faintest sharp edge. Obsidian had said there were dhampir in training. Had they left one of them to guard her? It made no sense, which meant her suspicions were confirmed.

  She wasn't the target.

  She was the bait.

  There'd be other dhampir out there, far more dangerous than this one.

  She had to get out of here before Malloryn and the others walked into a trap.

  Rifling through his coat, she found a pair of knives stashed about his person. Not as well-crafted as her own, but they'd do in a pinch. Stalking toward the pistol, she checked how many bullets she had, and then snapped the barrel shut.

  Instinct told her to get the hell out of here and spring the trap before it was too late, but there were... a lot of crates. And they had a very familiar scent about them.

  Snatching a crowbar from a nearby bench, she jacked the lid off one of the crates, her heart dropping through her chest when she saw what was inside it.

  Oh, heck.

  Explosives.

  He couldn't find her.

  Obsidian's worst fears were coming true. Hours passed as he searched all of Silas's usual haunts. Then the entire night. Panic began to bloom in his chest as he expanded his search to include every known safe house and cell that belonged to Lord Balfour.

  And then the sun rose.

  Desperation became his driving force. He stole a cloak and hat to shield his skin from the searing sunlight, and staggered into the city, slipping from shadow to shadow.

  What the hell had he done?

  He'd told Ghost the cost of his compliance depended upon Gemma's safety, and then Ghost had gone out and kidnapped her.

  What if this was Ghost's answer?

  I will kill him. Slowly.

  But first, he needed to find her. No matter what.

  He was just nearing the East End docks, and one of the munitions factories Ghost had abandoned last year, when he caught a glimpse of a pair of familiar figures.

  Obsidian ducked behind a pile of crates.

  "Device is clicking," the tall verwulfen friend of Gemma's muttered. "I've got two clicks, so she's got to be less than three hundred yards away."

  Gemma was here. His gaze slid unerringly toward the warehouse on the end of the docks, and his knife slid into his hand.

  Then he paused.

  Why put her here? The warehouse was near empty, was it not? Everything about the situation had the makings of a trap.

  Obsidian crept through the fog, slipping after the pair of Rogues. They moved well, using shadows to hide in as they checked the device.

  "Getting closer," Ingrid murmured. "Which one is it?"

  And Obsidian made a decision.

  He cleared his throat. Loudly.

  Instantly, the tall ex-Nighthawk spun around, his pistol locking upon Obsidian. He stepped out from the crate he'd been using for cover, hands in the air.

  Caleb Byrnes stared at him, and then slowly lowered the pistol.

  "If you wanted us dead, we wouldn't have heard you coming," Byrnes said, drawing a swift conclusion. "Hence, you don't want us dead."

  "Correct."

  Byrnes's eyes narrowed, but he slowly put up his weapon. "Do you know where she is?"

  "Factory to your right. We were using it last year to smuggle weapons into London, but dock authority was becoming a nuisance, so Ghost shifted to another location. It hasn't been used of late."

  "What are we facing?"

  "No idea." We? He still wasn't certain how he felt about this entire situation. "I haven't checked in since I captured Gemma."

  "Smells like a trap," Ingrid said.

  "I agree."

  "Then perhaps we can form some sort of alliance?"

  A sudden rumble shook the docks.

  Obsidian looked down at his feet, then up.

  An enormous ball of fire suddenly swept into the sky, the warehouse simply exploding. All three of them dove for cover.

  "I think we found her," Byrnes said, ducking behind a crate as debris rained down upon them.

  Ingrid coughed. "Gemma? Oh, my God, is she still alive?"

  Obsidian's head snapped up, his pupils aching as they dilated in the intense glare from the fire.

  Gemma.

  And what the hell?

  That factory should have been empty.

  Gemma sprinted along the street, the wall of flames behind her crackling with heat. A piece of burning debris shot past her, sparks and ash tumbling from the sky like a hail of flaming rain.

  "Gemma?"

  She skidded to a halt as Obsidian appeared out of nowhere, covered head-to-toe in an enormous cloak.

  "Dmitri?" Then she was in his arms, and he dragged her tight against his chest, spinning her around. Gemma wheezed as his embrace began to crush her a little. "Dmitri."

  "Hell." He let her go enough to catch her breath. "I thought you were dead."

  "There seems to be a lot of that going around."

  Capturing her face in both hands, he kissed her hard and fast. Gemma's fingers twined in the back of his hair, exhilaration burning through her and igniting the sudden need to get her hands on his skin.

  "Ahem." A cough behind them.

  Gemma broke the kiss with a gasp.

  "Jesus, Gemma." A familiar voice drew her attention. "You know Malloryn disapproves of us drawing attention to our work. You could have chosen a smaller target to ignite."

  Byrnes.

  And Ingrid.

  "I was low on options at the time," she replied.

  "And I should like to point out," Byrnes said, "you have terrible taste in men."

  "So do I, apparently," Ingrid growled, giving him a nudge.

  Gemma slid down the front of Obsidian, glancing between the three of them. Nobody seemed to be on the defensive. "What's going on? What are you all doing here?"

  "Together?" Byrnes teased.

  "We had a common desire between us," Obsidian murmured, resting his hand on the small of her back.

  "Probably going to return to trying to kill each other tomorrow," Byrnes said with a shrug. "Though I suspect Malloryn's got plans. He had that gleam in his eye."

  "Plans?"

  Obsidian's lips thinned. "It seems the Duke of Malloryn and I are overdue a chat."

  Silas strode through the door to Ghost's personal quarters, and paused as the scent of blood hit him like a punch in the throat.

  Puddles of blood soaked into the rugs. Two pale bodies lay slumped in various disarray. Ghost stood amongst the carnage, wiping the blood from his pale hands with a linen handkerchief. He fussed at the creases between his fingers, and cursed at the mess under his rings.

  "Busy afternoon?" Silas surveyed the room.

  "Apparently there was a failure at our warehouse in the East End. You know how I abhor failure among those who have been given our gift."

  Silas picked his way among the damp patches. "I assume that was the explosion that took out our East End stockpile?"

  Despite the blood, Ghost appeared far too mellow, considering how well he took setbacks. It made Silas tread a little carefully as he eased the file labeled Coldrush Project onto the dhampir's desk.

  Ghost picked a pawn off his chessboard and began to clea
n the blood off it. "It seems Obsidian's obsession with Miss Townsend is warranted. She's a dangerously talented and beautiful young woman." Ghost tossed the bloodied handkerchief aside and carefully replaced the pawn on the board. "I was using her as bait for a trap for Malloryn, but she managed to escape and in the process blew up the entire building."

  "You took Gemma Townsend captive?" Was Ghost out of his mind? "Did you not hear what Obsidian’s terms were?"

  "I heard them."

  Silas stared at him. This was going to ignite a war between two of the most dangerous people he knew. And worse, the one person he still gave a damn about was now on the opposite side of the divide. "He'll kill you."

  "He'll try."

  "What are you going to do about him?"

  A faint flicker of a smile, there and then gone again. "Why... nothing."

  "He knows everything," Silas stressed. "We'll have to abandon this place and most of our operations."

  "He won't get a chance to use the knowledge."

  "What do you mean?" What was Ghost planning? And why the hell did he not know about it?

  "I have had enough of this Company of Rogues. It's time to initiate Phase Two."

  "You mean to activate the Chameleon."

  It wasn't a question.

  It also explained precisely why Ghost wasn't worried about Obsidian. Silas's heart stopped dead in the center of his chest. He swore it did.

  "Rumor tells me Malloryn's called a Council meeting in the Tower tomorrow. Which means he's taken the bait. He's about to introduce our unwitting Chameleon to the queen. What was it Obsidian said? Something about how we couldn't get inside the Tower.... Well, it inspired a certain train of thought. We can't. But nobody said anything about the Company of Rogues."

  "You're going to activate the Wraith."

  Silas watched as Ghost toppled the ivory queen in the middle of the chessboard.

  "It seems like poetic justice: Malloryn is going to do the one thing we never could. He's going to hand deliver our assassin to the queen."