by Bec McMaster
"Will do," Kincaid muttered.
Ava blinked, and Kincaid willed her to look at him.
Seemed they were going to be spending more time together than anticipated.
He could hardly wait.
Three
SHOUTS ECHOED THROUGH the narrow streets.
"What on earth is that sound?" Ava demanded, as the steam carriage came to a halt. "Are we going to make it to the crime scene?"
"Hopefully." Kincaid helped Ava down from the steam carriage, a scowl furrowing his brow. The traffic had been thick in the last few minutes, but he'd been distracted by Ava's absorption in the notes she'd been writing. He hadn't been paying attention to what was going on around them. This was his home territory—the borough he'd been born in, and had spent most of his formative years within. Sheets flapped from laundry lines slung between narrow alleys; windows were boarded over; and the usual assortment of flower girls were out with their baskets of posies, trying to beg a sale.
But something was wrong. There was a tension in the air he hadn't seen for at least three years, almost like a thunderstorm on the horizon. And the streets were far less crowded than usual.
"Five shillings," said the hackney driver nervously, his hand sliding over the stick shift of the steam hack.
Kincaid paused with his hand on the pouch. He couldn't hear anything anymore, but there were hints of smoke in the air. Across the street a man hurried his wife and child down a small lane, glancing back over his shoulder. The butcher in the store opposite them locked his door and then pulled down the blind.
"I've got another hire," the hack driver muttered, as if to hurry him along, and Kincaid made his decision.
"Are we going?" Ava called.
There were Nighthawks holding the scene of the latest Black Vein death, Malloryn had said. A ruckus was clearly going on nearby, but it wasn't unmanageable. And Kincaid was armed if necessary. Handing over the coin, he helped Ava onto the footpath and out of the way as the hack driver pulled out into the traffic.
"How unusual," Ava muttered, staring after the hack. "He couldn't wait to be rid of us."
"Expect trouble," he told her, tucking her hand through the crook of his arm. "I don't know what's goin' on precisely, but something's brewing."
"The disease?"
"Perhaps." The body they were going to investigate was certainly in the direction of all the noise. "Can you hear any—"
"Get back!" someone called. The sound of cries suddenly echoed ahead of them.
Kincaid stopped dead in his tracks. A pack of street children ran past, thin leather shoes slapping on the cobbles. A pair of dogs galloped at their heels, tails tucked between their legs. Kincaid captured Ava's hand beneath his, stepping between her and the rumble of brewing noise.
"What is it?" Ava asked, trying to peer over his shoulder.
She took a step toward the noise—which matched the address of their crime scene—and he suddenly realized what was happening.
"Bloody cravers! Taking our blood! Our jobs!"
Something smashed around the corner from them.
Flames whooshed, as though oil or something flammable was thrown on a small fire, its orange glow licking over the rooftops ahead of him. Kincaid took a step back, nerves firing to life down his spine. Shit.
"Take back what's ours!"
"Should've killed them all!"
Somewhere ahead of them glass sprayed with a tinkling sound across cobbles. A cheer went up and it sounded as though a dozen men slipped their leashes, their excitement tumbling all over the crowd as they egged each other on.
He'd heard that sound before. Trouble.
"Stay here," he urged, shoving Ava into a nearby alley. "Have you got a pistol? Or a weapon?"
Ava flourished her parasol. He'd seen some of her defensive designs in action, and knew that hidden within the lace was a shield, and possibly worse. The last one she'd designed had a hidden bayonet at the tip she could trigger with a twitch of her finger. "Not a weapon, precisely, but it will do. What are you doing?"
"Let me check it out first." He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, preparing him to fight—or flee. "It sounds like a riot's about to happen."
"A riot?" She'd know what that meant just as much as he did—once upon a time it had been the only weapon the human classes and mechs had owned against the powerful aristocratic Echelon.
"Just keep your head down. It's not as though the Echelon sends out its Trojan cavalry to crush a mob anymore." Once upon a time, the automaton cavalry rampaged through the streets upon the Echelon's bidding, crushing any and all who stood in their path. You'd hear the horns blaring, and it would be every man for himself as he fought to clear the streets. Those days were long gone, thank all the gods. "I'll be back before you know it."
"You can't go by yourself," she protested.
"Ava." Kincaid looked down at the small hand on his sleeve. "I'm human. You're not. And from the sounds of it, you're precisely what this mob wants to get its hands on." He could still hear them bellowing about “death to the cravers.” "Stay here, and keep out of the way. I'll be back shortly. I need to see how big this is getting, and where it's spreading."
As she let him go, he strode through the crowd that was gathering. Some fled—the more sensible perhaps. But others seemed drawn to the vortex of violence ahead of him, as though hungry to see what was happening.
How many years of peace had there been since the last time London went up in flames? Once, a riot was the only thing the corrupt prince consort and his Council of Dukes feared. But ever since humans reclaimed their rights to live freely, there'd been only one riot, and that had ended when the queen made a plea for clemency.
Kincaid shoved his way through the growing spectators. He and Ava had a crime scene to investigate, but he certainly wasn't bringing her to the address until he knew what lay in wait for them. This wasn't his first riot. He'd grown up in streets like this, and had brought ruin to dozens of blue blood businesses and houses in his time—back when they were the monsters everyone feared, and there was no other recourse for people like him.
"Down with the cravers!" someone screamed, and a queer sort of shiver went through him.
Those words had been in his mouth many a time. The feeling of rage ignited along his skin, taking him back into the past, when he'd stood at the head of a mob like this. Emotion would be contagious, and he felt it stirring within him even though he worked on the other side now.
A thousand slights against him. Watching those he loved die at the hands of blue bloods. Working his fingers to the bone just to get a fucking scrap of something out of life.
"Serves them right!" another shout echoed. "All blue bloods should die!"
Once upon a time he might have shared the same sentiment. He'd spent years in the blistering heat of the mech enclaves, his freedom sold to the blue bloods who ran them in exchange for the mechanical hand they'd fitted him with. His mech debt—the years of service he owed for the hand—stretched to fifteen years, and until the revolution started brewing, he'd despaired of ever tasting freedom again.
And then he'd been asked to join the Company of Rogues, which was formed almost solely of blue bloods. The hatred hadn't died; it still smoldered in his gut, even though he considered some of the other Rogues to be allies, perhaps even friends.
But it was Ava who'd forced him to rethink his position all blue bloods should be guillotined, like the French had done to their blue blood aristocracy. Ava, with her big green eyes, her revulsion for blood, and the way her cheeks burned whenever he flirted with her, or made a crude joke. Ava was a kitten, not a predator, no matter what virus ran through her blood.
And if she could be innocent, despite her affliction, then how could he categorize the rest of them? He didn't entirely know what to think anymore. And it fucking bothered him sometimes.
"Burn them!"
Ahead of him he could see the crime scene address, and the Nighthawks standing in a sharp line in fron
t of the building, nervously trying to hold the crowd at bay. Kincaid didn't even know why he'd come. He’d taken the measure of the crowd already—this was going to turn violent.
"Stand back!" one of the Nighthawks called to the mob. "There's already been one death today, and we don't want any—"
"You're cravers! Just like them as killed our sons and daughters!" A bottle launched from where the voice was coming from.
"Nobody's killing your families," said a sharp voice through a speaking trumpet. "The revolution was three years ago. We all have the same rights now—"
Another missile was launched at the fellow. "Burn the blue bloods out!"
The cry went up, and Kincaid's gut locked tight as he sensed the tide turning. Torches flared across the mob and Kincaid found himself buffeted from all sides. There was no point in pushing ahead to deal with the crime scene. The world was about to burn.
"Jaysus." Ava. He had to get back to her.
Before anyone realized what she was.
"Burn them!" The crowd chanted. "Burn them out!"
Greasy smoke stained the air. "Get out of my way!" Kincaid growled, fighting his way back the way he'd come.
"Burn them!" a man in front of him yelled, his eyes wild and a makeshift torch in his hands.
Kincaid punched him in the face, dropping him like a stone, and the crowd around him gasped, clearing a small space for him. He snatched up the torch as the fellow sputtered, and plunged it into a puddle of sludgy water in the nearest gutter.
"You'll set someone alight, you barmy bastard," he snarled, and those nearest him—who might have taken exception to his opposition—nodded as if it made sense.
Whistles blew and heads turned all across the square. Nighthawks reinforcements. It was about bloody time.
Behind him glass smashed. All it would take would be one hint of opposition—he almost felt sorry for the poor Nighthawks—and this entire scene would go up as though someone set a spark to a puddle of oil.
"Disperse peacefully!" came a voice through the speaking trumpet. "Or we will be forced to use the water cannon. Lives are at risk, and nobody wishes a fire in these close quarters!"
"Burn them!" someone bellowed. "Burn them all!"
"Kill the cravers!"
And the noise behind him roared to a crescendo.
What had bloody set them off like this? As far as he knew, the last few months had been peaceful.
Kincaid started running. Blue bloods could be hard to spot. Any man or woman with a pale face was suspect, though they could be merely someone who kept out of the sun, which meant virtually half of London. In this crowd, people wouldn't check before they bludgeoned someone to death.
Real fear began to curdle in his gut. He skidded around the corner where he'd left her. There was no sign of her. "Ava!" He kept calling, ducking back into the streets.
People fled from the mob. Kincaid was knocked aside by a man drawing his tweed coat tight around his wife. No sign of a blonde head anywhere. Where the bloody hell was she? He'd told her to stay there, damn her.
"Kincaid!"
There.
He found her in an alley a hundred feet down from where he'd left her. She trembled, her skin even paler than usual. "I-I had to move. A man demanded to know what I was doing there, and I...."
"Smart choice," he muttered, grabbing her by the upper arm, not unkindly. "Can you run?"
"What's going on?" He caught a glimpse of that upturned face. "I can hear them yelling about killing cravers."
"The Nighthawks just arrived. This whole borough's about to go up like dry tinder, and we need to get out of here. Now."
"What about the Black Vein victim?"
"He's not getting any deader." You, however.... He kept that little tidbit to himself.
"Hey!" a man declared, shoving Kincaid in the shoulder and glaring at Ava. "Is she a craver?"
Kincaid stepped between them, his lip curling back off his teeth in a snarl. "Did you just fuckin' push me?"
Doubt appeared on the fellow's face, but he tipped his chin up. "Your lady friend's got awfully pale skin. We don't like that sort here."
"If you're referring to my wife," he stated coldly, "then I'm going to take exception to your tone. And it's bloody England, man. Everyone's got pale skin."
A vial appeared in the man's hand and he threw it at Ava, even as Kincaid shoved him back a step. What the hell? He snatched a handful of the man's collar, shooting a look at her. "Ava?"
There was blood spattered all over the front of her coat. Her mouth fell open in shock but her eyes flashed black with the craving as the predator within her roused, and Kincaid knew they were in trouble.
It all happened in an instant. The man's eyes lit up. "Got one—!"
Kincaid drove his mech fist into the man's throat, crushing the sound of the words before they could draw any attention. "You son of a bitch."
The bastard dropped, clutching at his throat and making some sort of gurgling sound.
"Did you just...." Ava trembled, one hand to her lips.
"No time for manners, kitten." Kincaid grabbed her by the hand. A cry went up behind them. They'd been spotted. "Let's see how fast you can run!"
They ran for several blocks, his hand wrapped around hers. Blue bloods were faster than humans, but Ava was gasping for breath within two hundred feet, one hand clasped to her chest. For some mysterious reason, she was struggling, and with his health conditions, the fact he was outrunning her was a surprise.
"There they are!" someone screamed.
And Kincaid made a decision. "We're going up."
"Up?"
He turned and caught her around the waist, lifting her in the air. "Lean on my shoulder."
"What are you doing?"
"Put your foot in my hand."
"Kincaid!" He ignored her cry and grabbed hold of her foot. The second he had a firm grip, he launched her into the air.
She landed on the roof, scrabbling for purchase on the tiles. Kincaid eyed the narrow alley they'd ducked into, then ran at the opposite wall, leaped onto a rain barrel, and shoved off the wall. He twisted in midair, catching hold of the gutter behind him near Ava's foot, and then used brute strength to haul himself up beside her. His legs might threaten to buckle beneath him occasionally, but he still had an enormous amount of strength in his upper body.
"Keep going, we're not out of danger yet," he said, finding his feet and helping her onto hers. The skirts were going to be a problem. Kincaid grabbed hold of her arm again, aware he was probably bruising her, but unable to slow down. Ava would survive a tight grip or two right now.
If that mob got their hands on her though, then he didn't like her chances.
"Come on," he said, hurrying across the rooftop and helping her scramble over the gable. Chimneys dotted the rooftops, but the only smoke was coming from behind them. The sun had showed its face this morning for the wedding, but dark clouds seemed to have come from nowhere, and it was getting hard to see. "Let's get out of this mess."
"But where?" Ava bit her lip, glancing back toward the screams and the smoke.
Only one place to take her. He cursed under his breath, hating the thought of the intrusion into his private life, but he couldn't risk her safety. Not in these streets.
"My uncle lives nearby. We can take shelter there until this blows over."
Ava gently put her hand in his.
Four
BANG. BANG. Kincaid rapped on the door to a small house in Fitzrovia, then reached up under the thatch and lifted a key down. He opened the door, ushering her inside. "Ian? Orla? It's just me."
Silence echoed through the small house. It smelled musty, and... there was some odor Ava didn't like. Like liniment, and tonics, and sickness. Trying to catch her breath after that mad dash across the rooftops of London, she was helpless to do anything but stumble inside after the big mech. The heart that ticked in her chest was made of biomech pieces—a literal clockwork heart—and she'd been warned against too much exert
ion, as the atrial pump might not be able to handle the flow pace.
Nobody truly knew the limits of her heart, and she wasn't interested in testing it.
Sweat clung to Kincaid's back. He'd lost his coat somewhere along the way, using it to lower her down into the streets once they'd lost the crowd chasing them. He should have looked unruly, but she couldn't deny there was something vital about him in this moment, something very masculine. He was everything she'd never been drawn to before, towering over her first fiancé, Paul, and even Byrnes. Brute was possibly the term she'd first thought when she caught sight of him, and yet there was also something comforting about his size and height, especially today.
His stride was long and firm, his manner brusque and competent. She'd been so scared, and having him there at her side was the only thing that kept her from being overcome with fright.
"Are you all right?" he demanded, setting her leather satchel on the table.
"This is your... uncle's home?" Ava hovered in the kitchen he'd led them into, not quite daring to take another step.
Kincaid didn't look happy to have her here, and his manner had become curt on the way. Irritation and nervousness about the riot? Or was it something else? She couldn't quite read him.
"Aye." He captured her fingertips, looking down at her from beneath those dark lashes that made his eyes so very blue. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Hurt her? "Pardon?"
"I wasn't very gentle," he admitted, and brushed the backs of his fingers against her upper arm.
She'd probably sport a bruise or two in the morning, but that mattered little. "You saved my life," she blurted. "I thought that man's friends were going to set me on fire."
Coldness burned in his eyes. "Like hell. Not while I'm there."
She'd seen the look in the man's eyes when he threw that vial of blood all over her. The shock of it—the smell, the splatter against her face—had ignited the craving within her and it had taken her precious moments to get herself under control. Suddenly it made her feel sick. Ava tugged at the buttons on her coat, and started stripping it down over her arms. She wanted it off. "He looked at me like he hated me. He looked at me like I was a monster. Get this off me...."