by Bec McMaster
“How?” Lynch murmured, all of the movement in his body vanishing as his knuckles whitened on the armchair’s sides.
Barrons turned away from the window, the light behind him obliterating the distinctive lines of his face and casting him in a halo of sorts. He looked like no angel, however. “Honoria, are you certain?”
“There is another…cure,” Honoria replied. “I discovered it almost four years ago, and both Blade and Barrons have been using it since. That’s why Dr. Hague’s machine interested me so much.”
The words hit Perry like a fist to the chest. “A cure?”
“And you didn’t think to mention this?” Rosalind demanded. “Everyone fears the Fade.” Surreptitiously her gloved hand slid over Lynch’s, though she didn’t look at him. “It would shift the entire power of the Echelon.”
Perry let out a breath, feeling a little dizzy. She didn’t dare glance at Garrett. This couldn’t be true… She could barely allow herself to hope.
“Whoever controls the cure controls the Echelon,” Barrons said grimly. “And whoever discovered that cure is worth more than their weight in gold. The prince consort would lock them away and never let them see the light of day again—or he’d assassinate her so only he knew its secrets. We were protecting her.”
“Perhaps that was wrong of us,” Honoria said. “I didn’t realize so many other people would be affected by withholding such information.” This with an apologetic look at Garrett. “It’s a vaccination my father discovered. It doesn’t affect a blue blood, but if he drinks his blood from a human who has been vaccinated, it slowly decreases his CV levels until he reaches a plateau.”
“If we hold this information, we can regain power on the Council,” Lynch murmured.
“No,” Honoria replied. “I won’t see this information used for the Echelon’s games.”
“If we give it,” Blade said, “then we give it to all. If the information’s free, then can’t nobody use it for their own terms. The prince consort loses all that power.” His smile held a dangerous edge to it, and he winked at Will Carver. “That’s somethin’ I’ll drink to.”
Honoria took a deep breath. “I shall publish all of the information in the scientific journals and the newspapers.”
“That’s still dangerous for you,” her sister Lena murmured.
“If you can live as a verwulfen, then I can reveal my hand.”
“Publish it anonymously,” Perry replied.
“An excellent idea,” Honoria replied with a warm smile. “Or perhaps I shall publish it under my father’s name. Sir Artemus Todd. He discovered it, truly.”
“And then?” Garrett demanded. “You said you mean to overthrow the prince consort, not just counteract him. Are you all insane? He owns the Coldrush Guards and the legions of metaljackets—who outnumber the Nighthawks, might I point out!”
“We’re not without our own allies,” Barrons murmured.
“A handful of Nighthawks, a couple of dukes, and the Humans First Party, I presume?” Garrett asked, glancing toward Rosalind.
“The verwulfen ambassador,” Will Carver added, “and all the verwulfen under me command.”
“Count me in,” Blade muttered. “And me men.”
“There are humanists scattered throughout the city from when I ruled the revolution.” Rosalind’s voice was stronger now. “And…preparations were laid to go to war, if the humanists ever grew strong enough to topple the Echelon. Those preparations are still in place.”
“All we would need,” Barrons said, “are the Nighthawks.”
The world seemed to slow down. Perry felt very small all of a sudden and glanced at Garrett for comfort. The word “war” seemed to hover in the air. She knew what it meant. People would die. Friends and enemies alike. But hope also shimmered in the air between them. No more bloodied bodies and riots.
“Is that your cost?” Garrett asked. “For your cure?”
Surprisingly Blade shook his head. “You’ll ’ave the cure. You’ve me word on it, regardless o’ what you decide.”
Garrett glanced at Lynch.
“It’s your decision,” Lynch replied. “They’re your men now.”
“Aye, and if I don’t agree, I’ll be the one forced to send them after you once the prince consort gets wind of this,” Garrett snapped. A red flush crept up his throat and he turned away, clasping both hands behind his head as he stared at the study wall.
Rosalind shot her a look but Perry ignored it. This was his decision to make, and she refused to see him coerced into it by his friends.
Crossing toward him, she reached out and stroked the hard leather carapace of the back of his body armor to let him know that he wasn’t alone in this.
“What do you think?” Garrett asked.
Perry considered the question. She didn’t particularly like the answer that was forming in her mind, but she couldn’t very well turn her back on the truth. “If it doesn’t happen now, then it will happen eventually. I think it’s inevitable. You only have to look back on the last few years and increasing tensions between humans and the Echelon.
“The prince consort has crushed too many riots, forced martial law down upon the city more than once, and increased blood taxes to a dangerous level. Once he rebuilds the draining factories, he’ll have to put the blood taxes up again to fill them. The working class will rise by themselves, sooner or later, and he will crush them.” Or we’ll be forced to.
“And you?” he murmured. “If I make this decision, then I’m throwing you straight into the heart of this war.”
Perry knew immediately what held him back. She’d nearly died, and he had watched it happen.
“Now or then, Garrett. It will come eventually.”
He stroked her face, gentle fingers brushing against her cheek. “I’m afraid. For you.”
“I know,” she replied, cupping his hand and turning her lips into the palm of it. “Then we fight back to back. The way we’ve always done.”
The doubt slowly faded from his eyes. “I want this,” he admitted, and she knew he was thinking of Mary Reed, forced into prostitution by rising taxes and the Echelon’s greed. Of all those women and children he hadn’t been able to save over the years.
Perry’s lips curled up in a rusty smile. “We survived against the Moncrieff and Hague… We can survive anything, Garrett. With you by my side, I know there’s nothing to fear.”
“Your father is going to have my head. I promised him I’d keep you safe.”
That surprised her. “When did you—?”
“We had a certain type of discussion this morning, while you were sleeping,” he replied.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
A knowing light came into his eyes. “It’s the type of discussion a father has with the man who’s bedding his daughter. Consider it between him and me.” The humor in his eyes faded and he turned back to the room in general. “I don’t entirely like this. I think we need to consider the effects of what we speak of before we commit to such a course.” Garrett met all of their eyes in turn. “But for what it’s worth, it’s done. You have the Nighthawks.”
Both Lynch and Barrons let out a breath of relief.
Garrett, however, wasn’t finished. “But first, there is something else to plan. Perry is going to do me the honor of becoming my consort.”
“I am?” she asked, arching a brow at him.
“You wouldn’t want me to break two promises to your father, would you?” he asked, that devilish little smile she loved so much tickling at his lips.
Acknowledgments
To my agent, Jessica Faust, for always being there on the other end of the email and supporting me wholeheartedly, no matter what.
My heartfelt thanks to Leah Hultenschmidt for acquiring the series and setting my feet on this path; and to my wonderful new editor, Mary Altman, for
putting her time and energy into this book. My project editor, Megan, for catching all of the glitches and making me think. Thank you also to the entire team at Sourcebooks who do all of the behind-the-scenes work and helped whip this book into shape!
Special thanks to my amazing support crew, the ELE girls: Nicky Strickland, Dakota Harrison, Kylie Griffin, and Jennie Brumley! Wonderful writers all, who are always there to share the journey and helped me with the beta read. For all of my readers, Facebook fans, and Twitter followers: you make this all truly worth it. I love getting to “ooh” over covers and share book recommendations with you all—it keeps me sane!
To my family and friends, who understand my hermit-like ways and are always pushing me to chase my dreams. To Beryl Raselli, Sarah Holland, Evelyn and the local library ladies, and Chris Day-Plush for helping to spread word of the books in town.
And last, but certainly not least, to my boyfriend, Byron, for getting excited over the little things with me, understanding why I have to work so many hours, being the first to tell me to quit my job so I can write full time, and generally for being my best friend, always. This book is a special one, written just for you.
In case you missed it, here’s an excerpt from the groundbreaking first novel in Bec McMaster’s London Steampunk series
Kiss of Steel
If only she’d been born a man…A man in Whitechapel had choices. He could take up a trade, or theft, or even join some of the rookery gangs. A woman had opportunities too, but they were far more limited and nothing that a gently bred young lady would ever aspire to.
A mere six months ago Honoria Todd had owned other options. They hadn’t included the grim tenement that she lived in, hovering on the edges of Whitechapel. Or the nearly overwhelming burden of seeing her brother and sister fed. Six months ago she’d been a respectable young woman with a promising job as her father’s research assistant, hovering on the edge of the biggest breakthrough since Darwin’s hypotheses. It had taken less than a week for everything she had to be torn away from her. Sometimes she thought the most painful loss had been her naïveté.
Scurrying along Church Street, Honoria tugged the edge of her cloak up to shield herself from the intermittent drizzle, but it did no good. Water gathered on the brim of her black top hat, and each step sent an icy droplet down the back of her neck. Gritting her teeth, she hurried on. She was late. Mr. Macy had kept her back an hour at work to discuss the progress of her latest pupil, Miss Austin. Scion of a merchant dynasty, Miss Austin was intended to be launched upon the Echelon, where she just might be fortunate enough to be taken in as a thrall. The girl was certainly pretty enough to catch the eye of one of the seven dukes who ruled the council, or perhaps one of the numerous lesser Houses. Her family would be gifted with exclusive trade agreements and possibly sponsorship, and Miss Austin would live out the terms of her contract in the extravagant style the Echelon was acclimatized to. The type of style Honoria had once lived on the edges of. Before her father was murdered.
Church Street opened into Butcher Square. On a kinder day the square would be packed with vendors and thronging with people. Today only the grim metal lions that guarded the entrance to the Museum of Bio-Mechanic History kept watch. The city wall loomed ahead, with the gaping maw of Ratcatcher Gate offering a glimpse of Whitechapel beyond. Fifty years ago the residents of Whitechapel had built the wall with whatever they could lay their hands on. It stood nearly twenty feet high, but its symbolism towered over the cold, misty square. Whitechapel had its own rules, its own rulers. The aristocratic Echelon could own London city, but they’d best steer clear of the rookeries.
If Mr. Macy found out Honoria’s address, he’d fire her on the spot. Her only source of a respectable livelihood would vanish, and she’d be facing those damned options again. She’d wasted a shilling tonight on a steam cab, just to keep the illusion of her circumstances intact. Mr. Macy had walked her out before locking up the studio where he taught young ladies to improve themselves. Usually he stayed behind and she could slip into the masses of foot traffic in Clerkenwell, turn a corner, and then double back for the long walk home. Tonight his chivalry had cost her a loaf of bread.
She’d disembarked two streets away, prompting the cab driver to shake his head and mutter something beneath his breath. She felt like shaking her head too. A shilling for the sleight-of-hand that kept her employed. It didn’t matter that that shilling would keep her with a roof over her head and food on the table for months to come. She still felt its loss keenly. Her stockings needed darning again and they hadn’t the thread for it; her younger sister, Lena, had put her fingers through her gloves; and fourteen-year-old Charlie…Her breath caught. Charlie needed more than the pair of them combined.
“’Ey!” a voice called. “’Ey, you!”
Honoria’s hand strayed to the pistol in her pocket and she glanced over her shoulder. A few months ago she might have jumped skittishly at the cry, but she’d spotted the ragged urchin out of the corner of her eye as soon as she started toward Ratcatcher Gate. The pistol was a heavy, welcoming weight in her grip. Her father’s pistol was one of the few things she had left of him and probably the most precious for its sheer practicality. She’d long ago given up on sentimentality.
“Yes?” she asked. The square was abandoned, but she knew there’d be eyes watching them from the heavily boarded windows that lined it.
The urchin peered at her from flat, muddy-brown eyes. It could have been any age or sex with the amount of dirt it wore. She decided the square jaw was strong enough to name it a boy. Not even the constant rain could wash away the dirt on his face, as though it were as deeply ingrained in the child’s pores as it was in the cobblestones beneath their feet.
“Spare a shillin’, m’um?” he asked, glancing around as though prepared to flee.
Honoria’s eyes narrowed and she gave the urchin another steady look. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was a rather fine herringbone stitch riddled with grime at the edge of the child’s coat. The clothing fit altogether too well for it to have been stolen, and it was draped in such a manner that it made the child look rather more malnourished than she suspected he was.
She took her time drawing her slim change purse out and opening it. A handful of grimy shillings bounced pitifully in the bottom of it. Plucking one out with reluctance, she offered it to the little street rogue.
The urchin reached for the coin and Honoria grabbed his hand. A quick twist revealed the inside of the child’s wrist—and the crossed daggers tattooed there.
His wary mud-brown eyes widened and he tried to yank his hand away. “Leggo!”
Honoria snatched her shilling back and released him. The boy staggered, landing with a splash in a puddle. He swore under his breath and rolled to his feet.
“I’ve more need of it than you,” she told him, then swept her cloak to the side to reveal the butt of the pistol in her skirt pocket. “Run back to your master and tell him to give you a coin.”
The boy’s lip curled and he glanced over his shoulder. “Worf a try. Already bin paid for this.” He flipped a shilling out of nowhere and then pocketed it just as swiftly. A stealthy smile flashed over his face, gone just as quickly as the coin. “’Imself wants a word with you.”
“Himself?” For a moment she was blank. Then her gaze shot to the child’s wrist and that damning tattoo of ownership. She tucked her change purse away and tugged her cloak about her chin. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty this evening.” Somehow she forced the words out, cool and clipped. Her fingers started to shake. She thrust them into fists. “My brother is not well. And I’m late. I must see to him.”
She took a step, then shied away as a hand caught at her cloak. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”
The boy shrugged. “I’m jus’ the messenger, luv. And trust me, you ain’t wantin’ ’im to send one o’ the others.”
Her mouth went dry. In the ensuing silence, she felt as
though her heartbeat had suddenly erupted into a tribal rhythm. Six months scratching a living on the edges of the rookery, trying to stay beneath the notice of the master. All for nothing. He’d been aware of her, probably all along.
She had to see what he wanted. She’d caught a glimpse of the others who were part of his gang. Everybody in the streets gave them a large berth, like rats fleeing from a pack of prowling toms. Either she could go of her own volition, or she could be dragged there.
“Let me tell my sister where I’m going,” she finally said. “She’ll be worried.”
“Your neck,” the urchin said with a shrug. “Not mine.”
Honoria stared at him for a moment, then turned toward Ratcatcher Gate. Its heavy stone arch cast a shadow of cold over her that seemed to run down her spine. Himself. Blade. The man who ruled the rookeries. Or creature, she thought with a nervous shiver. There was nothing human about him.
Of Silk and Steam
by Bec McMaster
Enemies. Allies. Lovers. How far will they go to protect their hearts?
When her father was assassinated, Lady Aramina swore revenge against the Duke of Caine. Leo Barrons, the duke’s heir, has long been her nemesis, and when she discovers he’s illegitimate, she finally has leverage against the one man who troubles her heart and tempts her body.
Sentenced to death for his duplicity, Leo escapes by holding Lady Aramina captive. A woman of mystery, she’s long driven him crazy with glimpses of a fiery passion that lurks beneath her icy veneer. He knows she’s hiding something; he doesn’t know it’s the key to saving his life.
Praise for Bec McMaster:
“McMaster continues to demonstrate a flair for wildly imaginative, richly textured world-building.” —Booklist
“Bec McMaster brilliantly weaves a world that engulfs your senses and takes you on a fantastical journey.” —Tome Tender