To Catch A Rogue (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  Lark made a mad dash along the thick branch of the oak and hopped across to the top of the garden wall.

  Then she was gone.

  Vanishing into the night, her heartbeat pounding a ragged tattoo in her ears as she listened intently for signs of pursuit.

  None came.

  And Lark smiled to herself as she made her way across several rooftops to the rendezvous point where her scout was waiting.

  Except Foley wasn't at the spot they'd agreed upon; instead a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other.

  Lark froze. There was a second where she started scanning for an immediate escape route, and then she recognized the faint arch of his brow as he stared back at her. On anyone else, the pose would have looked like a slouch, but there was just enough arrogance to the tilt of the stranger's chin to make it look deceptively casual.

  The bane of her existence.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded. "I thought you were a bloody Nighthawk for a second—or one of Golorukov's Ravens!"

  First rule of thieves code: Don't scare the piss out of your fellow cross-coves.

  "I made sure you'd see me."

  Seven months, two weeks, and three days since she'd seen him last, and yet her stupid heart kicked into gear like one of those velococycles that were becoming all the rage in the streets.

  Charlie Todd always had that effect upon her.

  "Good thing I wasn't nervous. Not like I'm halfway through a bloody high-stakes job and might be inclined to stick a knife in people I don't expect."

  "Why Lark," Charlie mocked. "It's lovely to see you too. You're looking well. Exceptionally smashing in.... Did you steal a footman's outfit, or have you taken to honest labor all of a sudden?"

  "What d’you want?" She couldn't play this game. Not right now. "What did you do to Foley?"

  "Sent him home." Charlie pushed off the wall, his hands still nonchalantly in his pockets.

  As if his heart wasn't racing, nor the blood rushing through his veins at the sight of her. It probably wasn't. This affliction was one only she seemed to suffer.

  "You had no right to do that." Lark started stripping out of the fancy embroidered coat she'd stolen. The golden frogging down the front was far too visible in the night.

  She tossed it aside, the froth of her borrowed cravat tickling her chin.

  Charlie watched her with glittering eyes. "Why the hell are you breaking into the house of a Russian diplomat? I thought Blade taught you better than that."

  He had.

  When the Devil of Whitechapel had taken her in as a young girl, he'd taught her everything she needed to know to survive the cutthroat world of the London East End. She'd started out as a dipper under Blade's supervision, until he was assured she wouldn't mistakenly pick the pocket of the wrong gull. When it became clear she had a gift for tumbling locks, he'd moved her up to housebreaking, and soon she'd become the best cracksman in the gang.

  The secret of success was to always pick the right mark. You didn't take from those as couldn't afford it. And you had to be careful with the aristocrats.

  Blue blood lords dripped gold and farted perfume, but you couldn't forget they weren't human. Meddling with the Echelon was dangerous, and Blade always warned against it.

  Rich merchants and bankers were easier pickings.

  Not as many guards as an aristocrat, and less likely to tear your throat out and drink your blood.

  But Golorukov had been practically irresistible to her the second she overheard someone speaking of him.

  "Call it a whim," Lark finally replied, dragging the pins out of her coiffure. Her scalp ached, and she raked her nails through her hair, scattering it and easing the pain. It tumbled down her back in heavy waves.

  Charlie's gaze followed it. "Messing with the cream is dangerous."

  Lark gasped. "Are you certain? I had no idea."

  The smallest of muscles in his jaw pulsed.

  "Oh, this is rich," she said. “You, lecturing me about leaping headfirst into danger. Do you think I didn't plan this? I weighed all the risks before I made this attempt. I've spent most of the week surveying the bloody house and working out the best way to get in and out. I deemed the risk acceptable and took precautions. Some of us like to think before we take action."

  And if it wasn't for that cursed squirrel the job would have been flawless, but how could you account for that?

  Frustration poured off him. "Any chance we can skip the usual pleasantries?"

  "Any chance you can vanish into the night so I can pretend we never saw each other?"

  Charlie's head half-turned.

  "Oh, that's right. You're the one—"

  "Lark!" He drove toward her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a pistol muzzle flash with fire.

  Lark's back slammed into the tiles of the roof, Charlie's entire weight crashing down upon her, and then they were sliding.

  She twisted like a cat as they hit the edge of the roof. Lark snatched out, catching hold of the gutter as she went over it.

  Not enough to haul herself back up, but she caught a glimpse of the window ledge below the gable, and swung herself onto it.

  Charlie was two seconds behind her, one of his boots landing clumsily between hers.

  There wasn't enough ledge for the both of them. She had to grab his collar and haul him closer, which left her with her nose buried in his shirt.

  A mistake, in hindsight, for every inch of her was pressed against every inch of him. Hard thighs indented her own, and she was suddenly, desperately aware it had been over three years since he'd touched her.

  He'd been still on the verge of boyhood then, tall and gangly.

  He wasn't a boy now. Not at all.

  And all the old, complicated feelings rose in her chest until she feared she'd choke on them. How was she supposed to pretend she wanted nothing to do with him when she desperately wanted to stroke her hands up the hard planes of his chest and discover just what else had changed in all those years? Breathing became dangerous. Even the ragged thrust of her heartbeat pressed her far too precariously against him.

  "I only saw one," Charlie whispered, pressing her against the window as he peered up.

  She was clearly the only one stunned by the press of flesh against flesh. Lark mentally punched herself in the face.

  "One of Golorukov's guards must have followed me," she whispered.

  And she'd been too busy arguing with Charlie to pay attention.

  That was a foolish, novice mistake.

  The kind she'd chided others over.

  "Oh, I weighed all the risks, Charlie," he breathed in her ear, mimicking her. "Some of us like to think before we take action."

  Lark dug her thumb between his ribs, and he stifled a grunt.

  Sound slithered over the roof tiles above them.

  Her gaze met Charlie's, and she made a few quick gestures with her hand in the sign language her mentor, Tin Man, had once taught her. Tin Man had been mute, and she'd taught Charlie how to speak with him when they were both children.

  Charlie nodded, turning to the side to allow her enough space to make her move.

  Tugging a knife free from his belt, she turned and threw it as far as she could. The clatter of it landing on the cobbles echoed through the still night.

  "Had to be one of mine?" His fingers moved rapidly.

  "Payback for startling me."

  There was no sound above, but a shadow suddenly appeared in the alleyway, the guard moving across the roof in the direction she'd thrown the knife.

  Then she and Charlie were moving in the opposite direction like wraiths.

  Into an alley, and then down the next one....

  She'd plotted out every inch of these streets during the week she'd spent watching the diplomat's house, and knew the best way to get out of here.

  Staying on the streets was too dangerous. They'd be trapped like rats in a barrel if the
y did, so she scaled a wall between gardens, crawled up the nearest drainpipe, and squatted on the roof. Up here, they had more space to maneuver and a better vantage point.

  Just in time.

  A patch of shadow moved toward them, dancing between chimneys. The guard must have found the knife and realized they'd be heading in the opposite direction.

  "Left," Charlie told her.

  Which meant she went right.

  It didn't escape her notice that he'd given her the safest route, with plenty of cover. Charlie sprinted along the ridge of the roof, clearly visible. Damn him. Drawing the fire if it came. And the pursuit.

  "You stupid, risk-taking bastard," she breathed, and went after him and the guard. If they survived the night, then she was going to kill him.

  Shots rang out, ricocheting through the darkness.

  Charlie vanished down the slope of the roof, and Lark's heart was in her throat as dogs set up howling. Lights flickered on in several windows nearby. If any of the guards at Golorukov's house heard the racket, someone might grow curious enough to investigate.

  She sprinted up the ridgeline, ducking behind a chimney when she caught a glimpse of the burly shadow surveying the streets below him. Lark slid one of her knives from her sleeve into her gloved hand, barely daring to breathe.

  "Lark?" Charlie whispered hoarsely.

  It sounded as loud as a shout in the night, and relief flooded through her for all of a second, before she realized he must have seen her and was trying to distract the guard.

  The guard turned to aim his pistol in Charlie's direction, and Lark slipped up behind him and put her knife to his throat.

  "Don't move," she whispered, digging a second knife into the inch of skin just above his kidneys, so he wouldn't get any foolish ideas. His hands looked normal; his face held no metallic gleam of implants. Not enhanced, thank God. "You hurt my friend, and I'll slit you a smile from ear to ear."

  The guard froze. "You won't get away from us."

  Us. A chill ran down her spine. "How many?"

  He stayed silent.

  "Do you know what I think?" Lark continued. "There were six guards on rotation in the gardens. Two in the house. You've got an entire ballroom full of potential enemies. I think you're the only one out here following me, which means—unless they heard the shots—we've got a window of ten minutes or so before they start wondering why you haven't returned. Would I be correct?"

  "Curse you, you thieving bitch."

  Charlie scrambled up the roofline, grimacing at the howling dogs below. "We need to get out of here."

  "Agreed."

  Lifting his pistol, he smashed it across the guard's temple and the man sagged against her.

  "He's a blue blood," she told Charlie, which meant he probably wouldn't stay down for long.

  "Why the hell does Golorukov have blue blood guards?"

  The craving virus had once been an exclusive right of the aristocratic Echelon's sons. Accidents happened, of course, when the virus was so virulent, but they'd classed those infections as rogue blue bloods, and it wasn't wise to advertise your status as such. Both she and Charlie were rogues.

  "The Russians don't follow the same rules the English Echelon did. They infect their guards," she replied, dragging the unconscious man against a nearby chimney. Ripping his shirt open, she found the black raven tattooed on the middle of the man's chest. Hell. "He's an Imperial Raven. We need to move. Now."

  Charlie sighed and handed over a small, lethal looking dart. "Hemlock him, just in case. Might keep him down for longer."

  So Lark did.

  Hemlock caused an adverse reaction in a blue blood, rendering them paralyzed for a certain amount of time.

  Then she stripped the Raven to his smallclothes and bound him to the chimney with his belt.

  Because they'd need every inch of a head start if the Raven somehow got their scent.

  "Now," Charlie said, "we need to talk."

  Chapter 2

  Charlie escorted her to a coffeehouse in the next borough, and indicated to one of the booths at the back, where they'd be granted a modicum of privacy.

  At this time of night—several hours before dawn—there were few people about. Night was a blue blood's time, and despite the strict laws currently governing the nation, the commoners of London still thought it best not to chance fate and risk tempting a craver with the beating pulse of blood in their veins when the moon was out.

  "Felt just like old times," Charlie said, as Lark shrugged out of the coat he'd draped over her shoulders. He flashed her a grin. "You, me, the chase. I forgot how good it is to work with you."

  Lark had spent the past several minutes trying to compose herself. She was not going to allow herself to feel the same, even though the blood still rushed through her veins. Five minutes with Charlie and she was once again taking foolish risks and letting him rile her.

  And worse, she'd enjoyed it.

  Not to mention her distraction had almost gotten them killed.

  "You were going to tell me what sudden urge drove you to seek me out," Lark suggested.

  His smile faded. "You still blame me for what happened the night of the revolution."

  The last thing she wanted to discuss was the night her entire life had been torn apart.

  Almost four years ago, the humans, mechs, and rogue blue bloods of London had risen up against the cruel prince consort who had once ruled with an iron fist. Charlie had wanted to join the fight, and Lark found herself swept along because she could never resist one of his schemes.

  And wherever she went, Tin Man went too.

  Lark rubbed her chest, where the scar of the bullet still remained. A half-inch to the left and she wouldn't be here today. "I don't blame you for what happened. Tin Man and I made the choice to follow you."

  "And he died, because of me," Charlie said grimly.

  In her dreams she could still see that moment when she'd been lying on the cobblestones, gasping for air and choking on blood. And the man who'd shot her—one of the prince consort's Falcons—had turned his pistol on Charlie.

  It had been a moment that lasted a lifetime. The scream died on her lips as Tin Man came out of nowhere, crashing into Charlie just as the pistol fired.

  And then her world went black as her blood loss overwhelmed her.

  When she woke, the only man she'd ever known as a father was gone. Dead. And Charlie had infected her with the craving virus, which was the only thing that had saved her life. She hadn't even been able to say goodbye.

  "Lark, I'm so, so sor—"

  "I don't blame you," she said sharply. "But I don't want to talk about it. It's in the past. And if you're going to waste my time then I'm leaving." She pressed her fingers to her temples, the world flashing into shadows around her as the craving rose, waking at the surge of emotion. Being in his company these days always woke the darker half of the predator within her. No, she didn't blame him for Tin Man's death, but a part of her couldn't quite forgive him for abandoning her in the wake of her transformation. It was easier to hold him at bay now than to let him know how much that had hurt her. "You said you had important business to discuss. Well, discuss it."

  Charlie opened his mouth, but paused as the server appeared.

  "Evening, sirs." The woman smiled at Charlie, evidently mistaking Lark for a gent in her breeches, cravat, and waistcoat. "May I take your orders?"

  Charlie ordered coffee, and then tipped his head toward her. "And hot chocolate for the lady."

  Thought he knew her, did he? Lark smiled at the server. "No chocolate, thanks. I'll have tea. Black tea."

  Charlie leaned back in the booth as the woman left. "You always ordered chocolate."

  "It seems I've lost the taste for it since my transformation." Now all she craved was blood.

  Charlie frowned. "Can we just talk for a moment?"

  "Fine, then. Talk. How did you find me?"

  "Blade told me which crew you were working with. I bribed Mick into givin
g me the details of the place you were casing."

  "How the hell did Mick know?"

  "Foley, I presume."

  Bloody Foley and his careless mouth. "And what do you want?"

  "Maybe I missed you," he pointed out.

  She knew exactly how that felt.

  She'd been sixteen—pretending to be fourteen—when Charlie burst into her life. At first, the idea of having another person her age in the house made her intensely curious, but Charlie had been newly infected with the craving and struggling to control it. Blade had locked him in his room to make sure he couldn't attack anyone else in the house if he lost control.

  It had been weeks before her curiosity overwhelmed her natural caution.

  She'd snuck into his room and found a boy sleeping. Pulling back the covers revealed a tangle of knotted blond curls, pale skin, silky dark lashes, and the face of an absolute angel.

  Most of the boys she knew were dirty and smelled and thought her a male, so she'd not had to contend with their attentions. She'd never wanted them either.

  But the second she'd laid eyes on Charlie, there'd been a flush of something she'd never felt before.

  And when his lashes had fluttered, revealing he'd been awake all along, she'd lost herself in the crystalline blue of his eyes.

  It had been horrible.

  She'd actually flushed with heat, certain she was blushing.

  "Who are you?" he'd asked.

  "The bane of your existence."

  "Careful now," Charlie had whispered, staring intently at her without moving. "Haven't they told you I might try to rip out your throat?"

  "You can try," she'd replied, with all the bravado of a young girl suddenly faced with a handsome boy. She'd slipped her hand into her pocket and then showed him the set of brass knuckles she'd slipped on. "But I wouldn't advise it, 'specially if you like your teeth where they are."

  Interest dawned in his face, and he slowly sat up. "You're not afraid of me."

  "You think you're the first craver Blade's locked up in 'ere?"