bloodied in a ring, where her sole aim was simply
to survive. Words couldn't hurt her anymore.
Indeed, ever since Will Carver's law had
been announced just over three years ago and she'd
been allowed onto the streets of London as a free
woman, she'd found such a prospect the more
frightening situation. Leaving the dark shadows of
Undertown—where she, Rosa, Jack, and the rest of
the humanists had once discovered sanctuary—
made her feel uncomfortably out of place. She was
still getting used to daylight, open spaces, and
blending in to a crowd, as though there was nothing
out of the ordinary about her. Freedom was
terrifying in a way that oppression never had been.
But she'd be damned if she'd admit that.
Byrnes looked away, tapping his fingers on
the edge of the chair. "I'm not going to be difficult
to work with tonight," he said suddenly, and then
their eyes met. "This is not the time nor the place
for the two of us to be clashing. Ulbricht and the
Echelon can be dangerous, and they've no liking
for your kind or what you represent for them."
She breathed out a laugh. "So it's a truce
then?"
"A truce."
Ingrid's smile faded. "You must be worried
about me."
His look said it all, really. Ingrid downed
another finger of brandy. "There's a possibility that
they won't even know what I am. As soon as we
land, I intend to use the occipital lenses that hide
the bronze in my eyes."
"And your scent?"
"A liberal dousing of perfume," she replied.
"Blue bloods like you have exquisite sense of
smell, but in my experience the Echelon lords are
too used to wearing colognes and perfumes. It
dulls their senses."
"Like your letter," he murmured, standing and
heading for the small travelling case he'd brought.
"The one you left on my pillow. I could barely
smell you at all. Here," he said, opening the case.
"We might as well finish the remaining
preparations, if you're going to start disguising
yourself."
She watched him gather up a handful of
devices. "It's quite convenient having the
Nighthawks at your beck and call, isn't it? Did you
raid their equipment store on your way out?"
"I'm testing some new experiments for Fitz,"
he corrected, "the guild's weapons master."
"Does Fitz know this?"
That earned her a rare smile. "Hold still. And
wear this at all times," Byrnes told her, brushing
the honey-brown curls on the left side of her head
behind her ear. Ingrid's pulse hammered as he
gently eased the small brass device inside her ear
and fitted it carefully. Byrnes looked up from
beneath thick lashes, as if he'd noticed. That touch
gentled, tracing the delicate curve of her ear. Then
his gaze dipped, the back of his fingers twisting to
brush against the delicate skin of her throat. Right
over the flutter of her pulse.
"Byrnes," she breathed, though it was a token
protest.
Hunger flooded through his eyes, turning them
darker, until only blackness remained. Byrnes
leaned closer, his breath buffeting her jaw, and—
Ingrid caught his wrist, breathing hard. She
knew what he was thinking, what he'd intended.
And so did he, judging by the sharp realization in
his eyes as he blinked. The darkness fled, leaving
only the alpine clearness of his blue irises, but it
unnerved her. Blue bloods only reacted like that
when their hunger was in ascendancy. "You haven't
earned your kiss yet."
"A kiss, is it?" His voice roughened. "This is
a communicator. You'll be able to hear me, and I'll
hear what is being said around you too. Once the
ball's in full swing, I'm going to explore the
grounds a little and see if I can find anything
incriminating in Lord Ulbricht's study."
"Can I join you in rifling his study?"
"I'll think about it." Easing out of his squat,
the creases of his trousers falling into place,
Byrnes turned away, toying with the various items
displayed on the table in front of him. Taking the
time to compose himself, she thought, remembering
that dark glint in his eyes.
certain what had just happened. Something unusual,
judging by the stiffness of his shoulders.
Once upon a time, she'd despised all blue
bloods, considering them nothing but monsters;
their inner predator hidden by a sleek exterior that
was little more than a facade. Byrnes himself had
helped dispel that myth a year ago, when they'd
worked together. She'd expected a blue blood,
driven by his desires for blood. What she'd gotten
was a man who held himself so chillingly
composed that the only predator she'd seen within
him had been the one who hungered to capture the
Vampire of Drury Lane. His needs were sharply
focused; his thoughts trained solely on the mission.
If anything, she'd found his composure so supreme
that it was almost insulting.
Except for the last couple of days, when the
bet had been in place, and for the first time she'd
seen a man with hunger in his eyes, a man who
burned with it.
But not for blood. Never for blood.
"Screamer," he said, turning and handing her a
tube-shaped
device.
Evidently
they
were
pretending nothing had ever happened, which was
fine with her. "You press this button, and the
device emits a high-pitched noise that will drive a
blue blood to his—"
"Jack created these," she told him, taking the
device and slipping it down her bodice as she
stood, before adjusting the snug fit. The gown was
one she'd used in the past for undercover work,
though times had been straitened then, and she'd
evidently gained weight since. "This is not my first
undercover role, Byrnes."
He held up a slender dart. “Then you know
what these do?”
“Hemlock dart, meant to paralyse a blue
blood,” she replied promptly.
He put the dart down. “ Fine. Just play it
safe."
With her heeled slippers on, she was almost
on a level with his eyes. Reaching out, Ingrid
smoothed her hands down over his lapels. "I
cannot quite figure out if you're worried about me,
or worried that I'll betray the game before we have
it figured out." Though her voice sounded light, she
felt that question curl through her. Did he actually
care more than he seemed to?
Byrnes's
hands
captured
her
wrists.
Something flickered in his gaze—consternation?
"If we get caught, then we get out as swiftly as we
can. It would be an inconvenience, but... not
unmanageable."
"You are worried about me," she blurted.
"The last time I worked with a partner, I
almost got her killed," he admitted with a scowl.
Every word sounded as though she were
threatening to pull teeth. Clearly he loathed
admitting his concern. "I don't work well with
others. I never have, and I know that I frustrated
you last night when I went behind your back with
Debney, but... working in a team has never been
one of my strengths. Sometimes I forget to
cooperate, and when I find a clue my first instinct
is to chase it, not to reconnoiter and plan our next
step. It wasn't personal, Ingrid." Grudgingly, he
added, "If I were going to work with someone, you
seem as good as any of the others I've been
partnered with."
Good heavens. That was practically a
compliment. She didn't voice it, however, as
Byrnes had clearly extended an olive branch
toward her. Instead, she shrugged. "Apology
accepted. I will warn you though, I do expect
better next time."
A sudden flash of smile made him shockingly
handsome, then it was gone as he turned his
attention back to her earpiece. Ingrid couldn't help
feeling as though she'd been jolted by a Leyden jar,
Byrnes was a complex man. "Who was she?"
she asked, for his tone had softened at the mention
of a “her.”
"My Nighthawk friend, Perry." Byrnes let her
wrists go. "As you can imagine, Garrett was quite
put out with me."
Perry... Well, that was all right. Ingrid had met
the woman and decided that she liked her, thanks to
a knife-throwing game when the pair of them had
been into Rosa's sherry one night. Besides, Perry
was quite happily married to the guild master of
the Nighthawks. "It sounded as though you were
quite put out with yourself."
"Yes, well." He turned, the tails of his coat
flaring. Pouring a glass of blud-wein from
Debney's decanter, he drained it in one swallow,
and Ingrid enjoyed watching the muscles in his
throat work. "I care for Perry. She reminds me of
myself, in some ways, and I always.... She always
seemed invulnerable to me."
"Until?"
"The day she was not." Byrnes finally looked
at her. "Don't get yourself killed. I still have a bet
to win and a reward to claim."
Ingrid's breath flushed from her lungs. For a
moment, it had almost felt like something else
lingered between them, but his words were a good
reminder. Byrnes considered life a challenge. If he
gave any indication that he cared for her, she
would be a fool to believe it.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't want to deprive you
of such a challenge."
SEVEN
THE WELCOMING ball was a masquerade.
"No mention of that on the invitation,"
Debney huffed, as though personally affronted, as
they waited in the receiving line.
Dozens of gorgeously gowned ladies fluttered
their fans, wearing an assortment of hawk masks,
and butterflies, or even some masks with
clockwork gears turning slowly over their faces.
At the door, a footman held a platter of assorted
masks for those guests unfortunate enough not to
have one, and Ingrid swept up a pretty gold-and-
blue concoction of feathers that matched her gown.
Just as she lifted the mask to her face, the
lordling in front of her tilted his head to the side,
as though scenting something, and went deadly
still.
Though the occipital lenses she wore should
have hidden her eyes, Ingrid swiftly tied the mask
on as he moved off, nudging someone else, who
turned to examine her with a cold eye. Both of
them had pale silvery-blond hair, as though they
were blue bloods well into the Fade. Once upon a
time, the Fade had led to a blue blood developing
into a vampire, and they'd been executed when
their craving virus levels grew too high, but there
was some sort of transmutation machine now that
helped dilute the craving virus levels in a blue
blood's blood.
No blue blood had to fear the Fade anymore.
So why hadn't they used it?
"This way, my dear," Debney said, tucking her
hand firmly in his. He stared the pair of lords
down, as though daring them to say something to
her.
"You know," she murmured, glancing back
over her shoulder curiously, "I'm not quite certain
why Byrnes dislikes you so. You are quite a
charming fellow when you want to be, Debney."
The pair of blue bloods had vanished.
"It's a long story, and I don't take it personally,
as Caleb dislikes most people." Those perceptive
eyes turned her way. Debney looked like fluff, but
was proving to own a shrewd mind behind those
insipid blue eyes. "Except, it seems, for some."
"I don't know what you mean." Fanning
herself, Ingrid looked away.
"He seems quite taken with you, my dear, if
one knows him well enough to know what he's
looking for."
A brief spurt of something—hope—flared in
her chest, but she swiftly repressed it. That was
foolishness of the worst sort. "I'm a challenge to
him."
"Mmm," Debney murmured, but he said
nothing more.
They swept into the ballroom, and she
couldn't stop herself from lifting her eyes to the
vaulted ceilings, dripping in gold, and the decadent
chandeliers. She'd never seen the like. Dozens of
servant drones roamed the ballroom with steam
hissing from their exhaust vents. More than one
young lady's silk dress was ruined in the wake of
the steam, and the room was intolerably hot and
humid, considering it was October. Ingrid slipped
a glass of chilled champagne from the serving
platter on top of one of the drones’ heads.
"Ulbricht used to be a scion of the House of
Morioch," Debney murmured, guiding her through
the crowd. "Owned two of the London enclaves,
and had exclusive shipping contracts with the
prince consort. He's practically a new-age
Croesus."
"So he'd have disliked the fact that the
revolution stripped his means of revenue so
dramatically." Good heavens, there were even
girls dressed in watered white silk that barely
covered them. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the
matching pearl chokers about their throats,
complete with a small metal ring at the front. They
were very nearly reminiscent of the slave collars
that the Echelon used to put on their blood-slaves.
"Isn't that illegal now?"
Debney knew exactly what she was referring
to. "Not quite, which basically describes Ulbricht
and his ilk. They push every law to the ver
y limit,
though they never seem to take that step over the
line, leaving the queen with very little recourse.
Those girls are most likely paid to surrender to any
who desire them for the night. No matter what is
asked of them."
Revulsion burned like acid in her throat. This
was what she'd fought so hard to prevent during the
revolution. It ached to see that the progress she
saw everywhere in London was but a facade to
these people.
"Relax." Debney patted her hand, which she
realized was clenched over his. He didn't quite
wince.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." Behind the mask, his eyes seemed
suddenly weary. "It's nothing that I didn't flaunt in
my heyday." His gaze seemed to take in every girl,
but there was no hunger in it. Only shame. "I never
questioned it, as it was the way I was raised, but
some of the stories you hear...." His voice
lowered, almost to a whisper. "Some of the things
that you saw."
"Or did?"
"Or did," he admitted softly, and to his credit,
did not try to explain away his actions. "You said
that you weren't quite sure why Caleb dislikes me."
This time he did meet her gaze. "I know. When my
father died, I... I found myself lost to freedom for a
long time. I never thought of consequences. Not
until recently."
Ingrid frowned. "Freedom?"
"My father was not a very nice man, and when
you consider that I walked among those that
surround us and thought them harmless, well... let
us just leave it at that. There." Debney tipped his
head toward something behind her. "There he is.
Ulbricht."
Applause and cheers tore through the room.
Lord Ulbricht appeared at the top of the stairs,
impeccable in black, with his pale hair pomaded
within an inch of its life. The man wore a thin,
well-pruned moustache, and faint lines shadowed
his hawklike eyes as he smiled and greeted his
guests with a wave.
Ingrid watched him saunter down the
staircase, shaking hands with one young lordling
and then offering a smile to another. It was surreal,
the way such evil wore a pleasant mask. "I'm going
to stop this, Debney."
For the first time, her mission—and
Malloryn's—suddenly made sense to her. She'd
fought so hard with the humanists to destroy the
prince consort and see his queen in a position of
power. The intervening years of peace and
subsequent failed trips to Norway might have
dulled her ambition, but this moment reignited her