My Lady Quicksilver ls-3

by Bec McMaster

  “Which direction were they heading?”

  “The docks by the East End.”

  Lynch sat back in his chair and eyed the way she clasped her hands behind her back. “You have something else to report.”

  Perry sighed. “When I lost the trail, I went back to Holland Park Avenue. I managed to pick up a scent from the man wearing cologne in the opposite alley. He never approached the house, but I assume he was watching for you.”

  “Not involved in the attack then,” Lynch muttered. “Which means their interest was in me. But why?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.” She took a deep breath. “There’s something else. The taller woman is verwulfen. I’ll swear it.”

  Interesting.

  “I’ve sent two of the men out to check the registry, to see if they can identify a woman,” she said.

  The treaty with Scandinavia had introduced a change in the laws, freeing all of the verwulfen in the Empire from slavery. Yet, all newly freed verwulfen were required to register at each city and town they passed through.

  “Excellent.” The pieces were starting to fall into place. Lynch had always been patient; the spider’s web was starting to tingle, the trap slowly drawing in on Mercury. A flutter of anticipation stirred in his gut.

  “You look exhausted,” he said. “Clock off and get some rest. You did well tonight.”

  Perry didn’t quite smile at the rare praise, but she nodded and took her leave.

  Slowly his gaze focused on the desk in front of him and he realized there was a piece of folded vellum popped beside his inkwell.

  Scent wafted off the paper—Rosa’s scent, reminding him of spring days and sunshine, of laughter and linen sheets. Despite his mood, he felt his shoulders ease. He’d wanted a secretary who wasn’t afraid of him, though he had no idea what to do with her.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Well, she certainly didn’t fear him, and he had to admire her ingenuity with the flask of blood. He also admired certain other aspects of her person but those were better left unthought of.

  Flicking open the letter with his thumbnail, he ran his gaze across the sheet. Moonlight glanced over his shoulder, giving him just enough light to understand the slanting script.

  Dear Sir,

  They say that cleanliness is next to godliness, which explains your lack of reverence. I have therefore taken it upon myself to save you from sinning. You’ll find your papers filed in my office; sorted, alphabetized, and ironed flat.

  I would appreciate it if you could keep them this way, though I have low hopes. With all due respect…

  Your servant,

  Mrs. Marberry

  She must have written it prior to this afternoon. And he in his blustering state had not noticed it.

  Lynch traced the curl of her name, his lips softening. Blasted woman. She had an audacity that astounded him.

  She had also managed to distract, if only momentarily.

  Lack of reverence indeed. He knew precisely who lacked reverence, whether he and his kind had been excommunicated or not. The admission spoke of her middle-class upbringing; the Echelon had long since turned its back on a church that disavowed them for being demons. As if in retaliation, faith was becoming a surprisingly strong counterpoint amongst the poor and middle classes these days. They had no churches—the Echelon had torn them down—but he’d heard of secret gatherings in shadowy places.

  Lack of reverence. His eyes narrowed and he put the letter down, reaching for his drawer to try and find where she’d put his paper.

  Bloody woman.

  * * *

  “You didn’t think to ask me if you should make an appearance tonight?” Rosalind snarled, striding along the dark, damp passage.

  “Finding someone of your height to play Mercury were your suggestion,” Ingrid reminded her. “Keep his lordship from suspecting you, eh?”

  Rosalind’s lips compressed. “He was injured.”

  “Exactly. I could smell the blood on him when he come out of that mansion.” There was a long moment of silence and Rosalind realized that Ingrid was wondering why she would care. “Knew he couldn’t give chase,” the other woman muttered. “Perfect opportunity to dress Molly up in a cape and mask. We just took advantage of the situation.”

  Which was precisely what she would have done in Ingrid’s situation. Rosalind slowed as she neared a door. What the hell was wrong with her? Lynch hadn’t been injured, not badly… Though she felt an odd discomfort at the thought of his blood on her fingers. The ruse with Molly would assuage any doubts he might own if she slipped up by accident. Act. Don’t react, Balfour had always said.

  Holding the flickering gas lamp high, Rosalind slipped through the door. “I just wish you’d have given me some warning,” she murmured.

  Shadows melted away from the encroaching light, revealing enormous man-shaped statues in the dark. Light gleamed on steel, reflecting back off the empty glass eye slit of the creature in front of her.

  “One hundred and twelve,” Rosalind said, staring down the rows of automatons. “And not enough.”

  “Calculations indicate each of our Cyclops are worth four of the Echelon’s metaljackets,” Ingrid said with a shrug. She tucked a cheroot between her full lips and struck a match. Red phosphorus burned in the cold, dark cellars, then Ingrid shook it out.

  The other woman disdained the chill, wearing naught more than a gentleman’s shirt rolled up to the elbows and a pair of tight, men’s breeches. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back tight into a chignon that left her high cheekbones bare. Sucking back on the cheroot, she blew the sweet-scented smoke through the room, running a bare hand over the steel-plated arm of the Cyclops.

  Rosalind sighed. “And they have over a thousand of those.”

  “We’ll make enough.”

  “Eventually.” At that, her lips thinned. Ever since the mechs had abandoned the humanist cause and vanished, the secret production of the Cyclops had ground to a halt. She could be patient—she would be—but she was fast running out of options. And now that Lynch had discovered her supply smuggling route out of the enclaves, she had even fewer. “Have you finished inquiring in the enclaves for a blacksmith?”

  “Mordecai’s evidently beaten us to it. Not a mech amongst them will offer us help.”

  “Then we look elsewhere. Kidnap one of the Echelon’s master smiths.”

  Ingrid choked on her cheroot. “Are you insane? The Echelon has them locked up tighter than a virgin’s drawers.”

  “Then where?” she snapped, spinning on her heel and staring at the silent, motionless giants. Based on the metaljackets’ blueprint, they’d been designed so that each heavy breastplate opened wide for a human to haul themself inside and manipulate the metal monster from within. It gave them a greater dexterity and manipulation, with a human’s reactions safely guarded behind the thick steel body armor. Coupled with the cannons that were fitted to each arm, they could belch Greek fire accurately up to twenty feet.

  “I need men to wield them,” she continued. “And men to build them. I don’t have either at the moment.”

  “You’ve always been patient enough to wait.”

  “That was before Jeremy vanished!” Cursing under her breath, Rosalind slapped her hand against the nearest Cyclops. Pain stung her palm, bringing with it a clarity she knew she needed. She was failing—failing her brother, failing Jack and Ingrid by this odd softening toward her enemy, and failing Nate’s final dream to restore human rights in Britain. Somehow, speaking of him tonight to Lynch had stirred her guilt to tormenting levels. “Did you circle the guild?”

  “Aye. No sign of Jeremy’s scent. I’ve been in the city too—”

  “Ingrid!” she snapped, turning on her friend. “You take too many risks. One look at your eyes and every blue blood in the city would know precisely what you are.”

  As if to spite her, Ingrid lifted her gaze, those metallic golden irises catching the light. “The laws against verwulfen have been revo
ked. And there’s enough trickling in from Manchester and the Pits for one more not to be noticed.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re safe.” A blue blood was a verwulfen’s natural enemy. Even Ingrid’s berserker-fueled strength wouldn’t help her if there were enough of them. “Promise me you won’t take any more risks. Don’t go near the city again—don’t show your eyes.”

  Ingrid’s shoulders swelled, a look of burning indignation narrowing her eyes. “I’ve as much a right as you,” she growled softly. “I’ve hidden these bloody eyes half my life, down here in the dark. Now that the blue bloods have signed a truce with the Scandinavian verwulfen clans, I don’t have to hide anymore.” Her expression turned stubborn. “I won’t. It kills me to be cooped up down here, in these bloody tunnels.”

  Rosalind clasped Ingrid’s hand between her own—one of the few who would dare when Ingrid was in this mood. The skin beneath her right palm was burning hot. The loupe virus that made Ingrid what she was had done more than just make her super-humanly strong. “I know.” Rosalind’s voice softened. “I’m just worried that the truce is still too new. The blue bloods have long memories and some of them are so old they still live in the past.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “If you go above, take several of the men. Or Jack, even.”

  Ingrid tossed the cheroot to the floor and ground it beneath her heel, expressionless. The very blankness of her face told Rosalind how upset she was. Ingrid had long since learned to keep her temper leashed for fear of hurting someone, and her control showed in the stiff line of her shoulders.

  “Truce?”

  Ingrid glared at her moodily, then nodded. Rosalind grabbed her hand in a rough shake, squeezing with her iron fingers. Ingrid’s nostrils flared, but she squeezed back. The seconds dragged out, then Ingrid shoved her away, cursing under her breath.

  Rosalind hit the wall and laughed—an old ritual that never failed to soothe Ingrid’s savage temper. She flexed the metal fingers, feeling the muscle grab through her forearm where the steel cables met tendon.

  “If you’ve broken my hand, you’ll have to pay for it,” Rosalind warned with a smile.

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. “I’ll kidnap a master smith.”

  Rosalind’s mirth faded at the reminder. She pushed away from the wall. “Come. We’d best get going after these mechs. I’ll need some sleep tonight if I’m going to manage my lord Nighthawk on the morrow.” The thought tightened something within her—a feeling of shivery anticipation.

  She was so distracted she didn’t even notice the sharp look her friend gave her.

  Ten

  Rosalind yawned as she entered her study at the guild. She’d spent half the night searching for the missing mechs. There was no sign of them anywhere in the blacksmiths, the iron foundries, or the enclaves, where they might be working steel. There were plenty of whispers about the massacres in the city, however.

  Closing the door, she blinked. Something seemed out of place.

  The sense of wrongness became immediately evident. Her desk was piled with a mishmash of folders, abandoned paperwork hanging precariously from the top of the pile.

  The culprit was nowhere in sight.

  He’d found her note. Rosalind took a step forward, surveying the scene of devastation. In the wake of all that had occurred last night, she’d quite forgotten it.

  Poor timing on her behalf perhaps, though she’d been unable to help herself at the time—that rash, impulsive feeling she could never quite escape.

  Control helps, she told herself, eyeing the massive pile and trying to smother her first instinct, which was retaliation. Balfour had taught her that, and while she hated him, she would use the lessons he’d given her to master her own impulses.

  Finding order in this chaos, however… She sighed and reached for the top sheaf of paper. The writing was barely legible, an impatient type of script, as if Lynch couldn’t get the words out swiftly enough.

  Mrs. Marberry,

  Since you evidently have so little to do, I have found some old case files for you to sort. Some of them—the 1863 files, I think—refer to a rash of odd poisonings in the city. I want those files on my desk by noon. There are also lists of the blacksmiths in the city. I want them all cross-referenced against the metalworking guild’s records to see who is capable of creating bio-mech parts. The guild records are…somewhere in the pile.

  Sincerely,

  Lynch

  P.S. I rarely sin, and when I do, it is completely intentional. I have no need of saving.

  Rosalind’s lips parted as she stared at the enormous mess in front of her and then curved up in a rare smile. If he thought this was the end of it, he was wrong. Eyes narrowing, she reached for a piece of paper and her pen.

  * * *

  The clock on the mantel ticked twelve.

  Rosalind put down the last of the files and stared at it. There’d been no sign of Lynch all morning, which should have been a good thing. It left her with time enough to dwell on her next move regarding the mechs and Jeremy’s continued absence.

  Jeremy. There had to be some sign of him somewhere, some word. She couldn’t believe he’d perished in the bombing. She’d know. Wouldn’t she? He’d practically been hers to raise.

  It was the first time she’d ever considered that possibility. All the bodies had been accounted for, according to the newspapers. But what if the newspapers hadn’t been allowed to know the full body count? What if, for some reason, the true body count had been kept quiet?

  Her breath quickened. The unfamiliar corset clamped around her ribs like an enormous fist, slowly squeezing, and heat sprang up behind her eyes. Don’t. She shoved away from the desk, moving unconsciously toward the soft afternoon light that streamed through the window. Don’t think about it. Keep moving. Keep hunting him. You’ll find him.

  Rosalind rubbed at the knuckles of her false hand, feeling the smooth join of each ball and socket through the thin satin gloves that stretched to her elbows. It ached sometimes, as if the limb were still there. Now was one of those times.

  Below her, the world came and went, tiny little men in caps and coats, the ladies sporting sober bonnets and dark dresses. This wasn’t the heart of the city where the Echelon roamed in all their peacock finery. The people below her were staid, middle class, human. Her kind of people. Those she fought for. Those she’d sacrificed for.

  To the point where she’d forgotten her impressionable little brother, guilt whispered. So focused on the Cyclops plan that she’d barely had time for him, focused on what she owed Nate.

  Why couldn’t she find him? The ache in her chest was so fierce she could barely breathe.

  Action. Take action.

  Emotion crippled a man—or woman. If you couldn’t lock it away, then it was best to distract oneself with affirmative action.

  Rosalind took a slow, steady breath. Lynch was the answer. She needed to get inside his head and find out what he knew about Jeremy and the bombing of the tower.

  No matter what she had to do to get that information.

  * * *

  The observatory was cool, despite the warmth of the autumn sun outside. Lynch crossed to the north wall, with its map of the stars and the crank that opened up the roof to the skies above. Grabbing the shaft, he unlocked it with a swift flick of the finger and pulled the lever that would open it. The process had been a laborious one, featuring crank and handle, until Fitz had taken one look at the system ten years ago and mechanized it.

  Probably a good thing, as the newly knit wound in his side gave a warning pull as he released the lever. Though he’d protested his fitness to his men, Doyle had taken one look at him and instructed a day of rest. Frustration had no handle on the feeling that ran through him.

  His gaze narrowed on the beakers across the room and the steady drip of distillation. The observatory wasn’t only used to stargaze; indeed, with London’s smog he rarely used it for that purpose at all anymore. Instead, it had become part laboratory, part retreat. It was o
nly here that he could force himself to stop thinking about work.

  The brass dome opened with a steely rasp, like a flower revealing its petals to the sun. A fresh breeze stirred the lapel on his coat and sunlight spilled across the stone floor of the observatory, cutting off just before it reached him. Lynch skirted its edges and peered into the first beaker and the pale, tasteless liquid within. A rare poison he’d been working with for months, which could create a catatonic, almost deathlike trance.

  No sign of Mercury, either on the streets or in his dreams. No, last night had been a torment of its own making, featuring the temptation that was currently sorting out his folders and keeping him from his rooms—fever dreams full of all manners of sin.

  Lynch’s mouth firmed and he turned on the distillator Fitz had designed for him. The small boiler pack shuddered to life, the water within vibrating quietly. He’d give it five minutes and then steam would be filling this small corner of the observatory, quietly distilling his poisons.

  Quiet footsteps caught his attention. Almost too soft to be any of the men. The first light traces of lemon perfume caught his nose.

  Not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. He growled a curse under his breath and turned just as Mrs. Marberry carried a tray into the room. Sunlight spilled over her and she looked up, her eyes widening in shy surprise as she took in the open roof. The expression on her face was muted and yet struck him as more real than any other he’d seen from her.

  Genuine, he thought, and wondered why that felt so right.

  “Good morning,” he said, noting that the gray gown she wore fit like a glove. Black velvet buttons ran from her throat to her waist, but the fabric there curved over her hips tightly before spilling to the floor. Her bustle hinted at the soft curves of her bottom as she turned in a slow circle, looking up, and his mouth went dry at the long slope of neck revealed by the action. Coppery red hair trailed in loose tendrils from her chignon, caressing her throat. In the sunlight she was a creature of fire, her porcelain skin almost ethereal.

  He wanted to put his hands on that fabric, to tear at it until he’d stripped her naked. The color slowly drained from his vision and Lynch took a sharp breath, jerking his eyes away. His pulse ticked heavily in his ears, a dull throbbing beat that should serve as warning to any blue blood.