Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy

by Bec McMaster

  Charlie paused in the shadows of a chimney, then pointed across the street to an enormous domed building that looked abandoned. “There.”

  “What is it?” Ingrid murmured.

  The streets were silent, and someone had blacked out the nearby gas lamps. A pair of shadows shifted at the edge of the square. Byrnes frowned. “I’m not certain. But I can see lights within, and there are guards.”

  “Check it out?” Ingrid asked. “The beacon seems to think this is it.”

  Byrnes nodded, and they took off again, crossing rooftops until they could scale the walls of the seven-story building.

  The enormous glass dome on the top of the building gleamed in the moonlight. Byrnes caught himself on a baroque pillar and peered through the dirty windows. Light glimmered below: a half dozen candles flickering as several people carried them in a slow circle.

  "Think we can get closer?" Ingrid whispered in his ear.

  Too many guards below. Albeit ones that were trying—badly—to blend into the shadows. "Got that harness?" he asked Charlie.

  Whipping off the leather satchel he'd been wearing over his back, Charlie withdrew a pair of harnesses with various ropes and a winch device. The young man seemed to be prepared for anything. "Only got two.”

  The three of them looked at each other, and Charlie held his fist out. "Paper. Scissors. Stone."

  The game was currently popular in certain areas of London, hailing from the Far East. Byrnes looked at Ingrid, then shrugged. They all held their fists out silently, Charlie ticking out the count of three with the fingers on his spare hand.

  Ingrid lost, a soundless curse whispering from her lips. Then she turned without argument to set up the winch with Charlie, while Byrnes strapped himself into the harness.

  When they were done, Byrnes cracked the seal on the nearest glass pane with his knife. Moving carefully, he opened the window to its full potential before slipping through the opening to the ledge beneath. Dust marked his fingers and a startled pigeon took one look at him before launching into space with thunderous affront. Byrnes pressed his back to the wall as he froze, prepared at any moment for the hue and cry below.

  None came.

  Then Ingrid peered down at him, pressing a finger to her lips.

  It wasn't as though I knew the bloody bird was there, he told her with his expression.

  To which she rolled her eyes. Of course she'd have known, if it were her.

  Charlie slipped in beside him, and the pair of them turned around, resting their boot heels on the ledge and leaning their weight out over space. Below bobbed those flickering lights as the members of the SOG trooped down into the bowels of what appeared to be some sort of Roman-style theatre.

  With a grin, Charlie leapt back into nothingness, a shadow that spiraled downwards, completely at ease with the fall. Byrnes glanced down, saw the endless darkness behind his boot heels, and suffered a moment where he nearly climbed right back out of there.

  Ingrid clicked the winch out one inch, and his arms windmilled, before realizing he wasn't going any further.

  Her eyebrow lifted. Are you going? Or not going?

  Byrnes's gloved knuckles were tight around the rope. But he wasn't going to back out now, with both of them watching. Giving her a tight nod, he took a step back, and Ingrid let the winch out as the world dropped out from beneath him.

  Jesus Christ.

  The harness cut into parts unmentionable as his full weight tested its range. His fist wrapped around the cable, body swinging helplessly as Charlie silently laughed at him. Byrnes managed to return the sentiment, though his smile was somewhat tighter, with more teeth in it. He was also fairly certain he was going to choke on his heart.

  Ingrid silently wound them down, with Charlie leaning back, peering at the world upside down without a care in the world. Byrnes endured. Those candles were growing closer. He could make out shapes now. Dozens of them, wearing dark-colored robes, with pale faces— No, not faces. Masks. Silver masks, with empty black holes for the eye sockets, and sewn-up lips.

  Charlie flicked his fingers to catch Byrnes's attention. He didn't need to hear the words to know what the lad wanted. Down. Closer. Needed to hear what the masked men were saying.

  Pointing a small crossbow-shaped device at a nearby column, Charlie silently shot a grappling hook up onto the spiral staircase, and used it to haul himself onto the railing, then to help Byrnes get closer. They both unhooked themselves from the main line before creeping closer to the main theatre in the grotto below.

  Huge stone statues of Roman-style gladiators circled the small stage below. It was like no other theatre he'd ever seen, and the main stage was circled by stone seats. What on earth had this place once been?

  "Gentlemen!" someone called, standing on the dais at the far end with a staff, which he thumped into the dusty floor thrice. "Shall we begin?"

  "Begin," chorused several dozen voices.

  Byrnes crouched above it all, at the last spiral of the staircase, his back pressed into the head of one of the gladiators as he swiftly counted. There were forty-seven figures below.

  And one of them was the Duke of Sunderland. He swept his hood back, revealing his silvery muttonchops as he surveyed the gathering. "Come out, Ulbricht, you rotten cur. Come out and show your face. It's time to vote on who shall lead the SOG."

  Laughter echoed through the circular chamber, strangely hollow. Byrnes jumped, though there was no sign of anyone nearby. Every man below began to shift uncomfortably.

  "Who said we came here to vote?" Ulbricht's voice echoed through the room. "I said the Sons of Gilead needed a new master, and that this would be settled here tonight. I never said there'd be a vote."

  The circular pit in the center of the room began to crack in the middle as both edges of the floor drew apart. One of the robed figures slipped through the crack and vanished with a howl that soon turned to a scream. Then all of the robed blue bloods began scrambling for the edges of the sunken stage as Byrnes finally got a good look at what was going on.

  Not a stage. Nor an auditorium. A fighting pit, elegantly decked out for the elite to sit and watch their favorite sport, which had no doubt been closed shortly after the revolution, when pit fighting was outlawed. Thank God Ingrid wasn't here, for this was a place where her kind had been unleashed onto the sand below the retractable wooden floor to kill and maim each other for blue bloods to enjoy. For a moment he felt sick as the floors opened up, and then the blood drained from his face as he saw what was waiting within the fighting pit.

  Another blue blood fell onto sands wet with dark blood as a pair of chained vampires launched themselves upon him and tore him apart as they'd clearly done to the first poor bastard.

  "Ulbricht!" Sunderland howled, turning to look for a way out.

  Others screamed as the floors kept parting, pushing their way to the edges of the sunken pit. A dozen men robed in scarlet appeared from doors hidden by the seating and stopped at the edge, pushing the terrified horde back down when they sought to escape. One of them kicked a blue blood in the face and he slammed back into his brethren, crushing them as he fell. Three of them vanished over the lip of the floor into the pit.

  "Ulbricht! Mercy!" Sunderland screamed as he pressed against the walls, watching the floor vanish beneath his feet. "Mercy!"

  The tableau ground to a halt as the floor stopped retracting, barely a foot from the stone walls.

  "Mercy?" The word echoed through the room. Heads turned as people tried to see who had said it, and then a man in a shockingly scarlet robe appeared out of nowhere at the top of the stands. At his side was a woman gowned in charcoal gray, wearing a leashed vampire at her wrist.

  Byrnes ducked out of sight with a flinch as Charlie did the same. Nobody had seen them yet, but who knew how well a vampire could smell? Neither he nor Charlie had a personal scent, but Ingrid's musky perfume would be on him.

  "To those of you who joined the SOG thinking that you wished a return to the good old
days, then I welcome you to my ranks. But know that it comes with a price. The SOG are going to take London back from that bitch queen and her cohorts! If you're with me, then be prepared for war and climb out of the pit. If not...."

  Byrnes risked a look. Over a dozen bleating blue bloods scrambled out of the pit. Three remained by Sunderland, glaring mutinously at Ulbricht. Byrnes sank back down. War? He exchanged a glance with Charlie. That sounded ominous. But what precisely were they planning? Gemma thought Ulbricht was planning something with explosives, but there’d been no sign of that yet.

  "You turncoat!" Sunderland screamed.

  "As for you...," Ulbricht said, and then the grinding noise continued as the floors evidently kept retreating.

  Sunderland's scream cut off abruptly, and then a pair of growls choked the noise off. Byrnes swallowed. Hard. This was a slaughter, not a duel, and a part of that sat wrongly with him, but spoke to everything the Echelon believed itself to be. Entitled pasty-faced bastards who thought themselves beyond the law.

  Charlie pointed up, and Byrnes nodded. Time to get out of here. They both scrambled into a low run, heading for the exit. They'd seen enough, and it wasn't as though Ulbricht was going to reveal more of his plan right now. At least they knew something was coming, and that the Rising Sons—this mysterious behind-the-scenes group—had taken control of the SOG.

  "Hey! What are you doing here?" A figure in a red robe stepped out of one of the tunnels that branched off the spiral staircase. Byrnes barreled through him, slamming his shoulder directly into the fellow's chest, and tripping over him as he fell. Damn it.

  "Someone's here!" the woman at Ulbricht's side called.

  Ulbricht lifted a pistol and a shot rang out. Stone chipped off one of the columns as Byrnes ducked, then a second shot scored hot fire through his upper arm.

  "Kill them!" Ulbricht yelled.

  Another pistol echoed. Charlie ducked and wove, with Byrnes hot on his heels. They both slid to the marble floor, using the protection of the stone railing as gunshots ricocheted above them. Byrnes clapped a hand to his upper arm. Blood wet his fingers.

  Charlie covered his head with his arms. "At least they're only shooting at us! It could be worse."

  After all, there were vampires below. "Don't speak too soon." The room fell ominously silent. A faint fluting trill echoed up through the central core of the spiral, a sound that chilled his spine. "Run!" he snapped to Charlie, shoving the lad to his feet.

  Then they were both sprinting up the curved stairs.

  A blur of maggot-white shot into view behind him as he circled upwards.

  Byrnes shoved Charlie in the back and launched after him, fists pumping at his sides as he sprinted for the rail that they'd climbed over. The ropes still hung there. He snatched a glance over his shoulder as they reached the edge of the spiral staircase, and saw that rocketing white blur hot on his heels. Byrnes ran faster, leaping up onto the railing and then launching his body out into air, reaching desperately for the rope.

  The second he caught it, momentum carried him forward as a whisper of movement swept past his boots. A high-pitched scream of thwarted rage echoed up as the vampire fell below, vanishing into the circular depths of the tower. It landed on the bloodied floor of the pit and scrambled to its feet to stare up at him like a cat watching a ribbon dangle above it.

  "So a fall won’t kill it." Byrnes swung back the way he'd come, glancing behind to make sure it had only been one vampire. He yanked hard on the harness to signal Ingrid to haul them up, the bullet wound ripping through his shoulder as though the movement tore his battered flesh further.

  "That was close," Charlie breathed hoarsely as the harnesses began to retract, dragging them higher.

  "Closer than comfortable," Byrnes agreed, his heartbeat still racing. A figure was forming in the shadows, a hooded blue blood stepping to the edge of the rail he and Charlie had just vacated.

  "We meet again," the woman called, turning her face up to the moonlight as her hood fell back just enough to reveal a smooth oval face framed by silvery hair. She watched as he and Charlie jerked higher.

  Ulbricht's mistress.

  And she was smiling faintly at him as if his appearance here pleased her.

  SEVENTEEN

  "HERE," INGRID SAID, handing him a flask as she pushed him back onto the bed in his room at Baker Street. "Drink this."

  Blood. Byrnes set the flask to his mouth as she sat beside him. Charlie had driven them home from the pits, taken one look at the murderous expression on Ingrid's face, and said he'd tell Malloryn what they'd seen. Byrnes hadn't had a reason to argue. His arm hurt, despite the raging chill of the craving virus, and he was fairly certain that the bullet was still inside him.

  Besides, he wasn't going to argue with her either. Not in this mood.

  "What are you doing?" he asked. Ingrid tugged open his coat, unbuttoning it with crisp fingers. Then he realized. "It's just a scratch, Miller."

  "I'll be the judge of that," she replied, pushing his coat off his shoulder and then gently touching the bloodied sleeve of his shirt.

  Everything about her expression changed. He didn't have an answer for what he saw on her face. Stricken? Perhaps stricken came closest. "The wound's healed around the bullet," she said. "I'm going to have to cut it out."

  "Then do it." Feeling somewhat adrift, Byrnes tilted his shoulder toward her. Was this what had her so upset? The fact that he was injured? It didn't make any sense, as she knew he was a blue blood. "I've had worse."

  “I’m certain you have.”

  “This is—”

  “Byrnes. Please be quiet.”

  She was frighteningly proficient as she wielded the scalpel with a skill and grace that told him she'd done this before. Byrnes ground his teeth together as he breathed through the extraction. The bullet pinged as it landed in the tray.

  It was as she cleaned the wound that her hesitancy came through. Byrnes watched her expressive face the entire time. When was the last time that someone had tended to him like this? He honestly couldn't remember. Perhaps his mother, bracing skinned knees. Or pressing cold meat to his face to still the heated echo of his father's fist.

  That soured his thoughts. Instantly he was back there, slamming into the door in his father's study, too small, too weak, too pathetic to strike back.

  Byrnes turned away from the memories, forcing them into that little locked box in his mind where he could pretend they didn't exist. He felt ill, as he always did when he thought of the viscount, but controlling it was easy. Lock it away. Lock it up tight. Don't ever let it out.

  The guilt was not so easy to hide.

  "Am I hurting you?" Ingrid's voice helped draw him into the present. She gently wound clean linen around the gauze that she'd packed over his wound. A chill told him that the craving virus was flooding back into the inflamed skin. By the end of an hour, there wouldn't even be a scratch.

  Which made this a complete and utter waste of her time.

  He said nothing though, because he quite liked those warm hands on his skin. "You're not hurting me."

  The tension that had radiated through her shoulders seemed to ebb.

  "Were you fretting?" he teased, then instantly wished he hadn't. Dark lashes fluttered down over her gorgeous eyes, but she couldn't hide how upset she looked in that moment. The bottom of his stomach dropped, much like it had when he rappelled down through the core of the staircase.

  Because the answer was yes. And he didn't know what to do about it.

  "Ingrid," he said hesitantly. "I'm incredibly difficult to kill. It’s fine.”

  "I wasn't there," she growled, throwing the small scalpel aside and pressing her hands to her thighs. "And all I could hear was gunfire, then you and Charlie come bursting out, pushing at me to run and blathering about vampires, and you're bleeding, and you wouldn't let me see to it in the carriage—" She pressed her curled fists into her eyes, turning away from him.

  It was the most extraordinary thing.
Byrnes stared at her bowed back, thinking through a response. The most immediate one was another jest, but she was genuinely upset.

  Nobody had ever been upset about his injuries before. Nobody had ever cared enough. There was a strange feeling in his chest, like a lump. Perhaps of coal, since he didn't have a heart. "Ingrid," he said, sliding down the bed toward her and cupping her arms from behind.

  "Don't hold this against me," she growled, bowing her head lower. "I'm verwulfen. I can't help feeling this way, this—"

  "Upset?"

  "It doesn't mean anything," she pointed out.

  Byrnes turned her around, holding out his arm. "See...." The scent of blood had vanished. "Just a scratch. Almost gone already, though I'll thank you for your ministrations. And I wouldn't hold anything against you. I like it when you get angry." Reaching out, he cupped her face in his palm. "I like the fact that you care enough about me to grow agitated when I'm injured—"

  "Byrnes—"

  "You care. Don't lie. It's written all over your face."

  That didn't soothe the savage wild he saw in her eyes. Ingrid was close to the edge tonight, and one push would rouse her fierce verwulfen nature. Sliding his hands down her arms to soothe her, he instinctively kissed the tip of her nose. "After all, how could you not? How could you resist me?”

  Ingrid couldn’t fight the faint tug of her lips upwards. “I’m glad that someone thinks you’re wonderful. Too bad it’s only you.”

  He rubbed her arms, laughing under his breath. “You think I’m wonderful. Admit it, Ingrid. You wouldn’t be in here fussing over me if you didn’t.”

  “Arrogant fool.” She set her hand to his chest. “And you like me fussing.”

  True. He smiled and tugged on a lock of her hair, which only earned him a swat with her hand.

  “Ouch,” he said, drawing his arm against his chest.

  Instantly she was all contrition. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I hurt you? Did I—”

  He used the moment to capture her in his arms, dragging her half into his lap. “Yes, you did hurt me. Kiss it better?”