by Bec McMaster
"What's your name?" he'd asked.
"Lark."
"That's a girl's name."
"That's because I'm a girl."
And whatever foolish feelings had begun blooming within her died a short death as she realized he saw exactly what everyone else saw when they looked at her: a grubby little boy in oversized clothes with razored hair.
"Aren't you going to say you missed me too?" Charlie prodded, and Lark came back to the here and now, realizing she was still staring into those very blue eyes.
"I've been busy," she demurred. "Barely give you a thought at all."
He rested his arms on the table and leaned closer. "Did you know you always look at my nose instead of my eyes when you're lying? And it's 'gave you.' Honoria would wince if she heard that."
His older sister, Honoria, had been giving Lark elocution lessons for years in order to strip the Cockney from her tongue. "It will open up more opportunities for you in life," Honoria liked to say.
Lark'd thought it a laugh at first, until she realized there was value in being able to speak as the Echelon did.
For one thing, it was easier to get closer to them. If you sounded like you came from the East End, people started to protect their pockets.
Opportunities, indeed.
"Not all of us had the privilege of being raised in a duke's house. But thank you for correcting me."
This time it was Charlie's turn to wince. "I'm floundering."
Their drinks arrived, and Lark tugged the small silver flask from her waistcoat and poured some blood into her cup. She smiled evilly over the top of it as she sipped. "Yes, you are. It seems you can't charm your way out of everything. But do go on. It's amusing to watch the Great Charlie Todd put his foot in his mouth. Still miss me?"
"Every damned day. Especially now." His gaze flickered to hers, and he drummed his fingers on the table. "I need a thief. A good one."
Ah. Business.
"Then look in the mirror," Lark said. "There's nothing I can do that you can't."
"Let me start at the beginning." He began flipping a small golden orb over and under his thumb. In anyone else, fidgeting would have been a sign of nerves, but Charlie was always restless. He seemed to be buoyed with more energy than his skin could possibly hold, and sitting still seemed impossible for him. "You know I've been working for the Duke of Malloryn for several months now?"
Lark crossed her arms, unwilling to let him know she'd been quietly keeping an eye upon him. "So I've heard."
"There's a team of us. We call ourselves the Company of Rogues, and we were working under the Duke of Malloryn to locate an unknown conspirator trying to tear the queen from the throne."
Lark's eyebrow rose. Though London was still striving to recover from the mess the prince consort had left it in, few could argue the queen wasn’t a vast improvement.
To lose her would be to cast London back into chaos.
"Two weeks ago, we managed to discover who's behind the plot against the throne during an assassination attempt on the queen. Lord Balfour is—"
"Isn't he dead?" Everyone had heard of the former prince consort's spymaster, but she was fairly certain the Duke of Malloryn had killed him the night of the revolution.
"Not dead enough. He's been hiding in the shadows ever since, plotting the queen’s—and Malloryn's—downfall. We managed to thwart his attempt on the queen's life, but his lackeys kidnapped the duke in the process.
"So Gemma Townsend—she's the head of the Rogues—has put together a rescue mission. We've got information leading us to the duke's possible whereabouts—we've even got a bloody invitation—but getting Malloryn out is going to be difficult. It's going to have to be a game of sleight-of-hand played out in the open if we've any hope of getting anywhere near Malloryn without getting our throats cut, and that's where you come in. We need the best of the best, and that's you, Lark. I need you. I need your help."
"What makes you think the duke is still alive?"
"Balfour wants him to suffer."
"I steal things. Not people."
"You're the best," he repeated, staring into her eyes. "And you know when we work together, it's magic. I barely have to tell you what I'm thinking. You've got experience in breaking into veritable fortresses. There's no lock you can't pick, no wall you can't scale. I'm working with a team of spies, bounty hunters, and ex-Nighthawks. They're experts when it comes to finding people and solving crimes, but they don't pull off jobs like this. I need you."
On one hand, it was tempting; working with Charlie was magic. There was something indescribable about taking on the most dangerous, riskiest jobs in the business and carrying them out slick as a whistle that stirred her pride.
On the other hand, she'd be working with Charlie again.
And the last time they worked together, she lost the only father she'd ever known and nearly died.
"We don't know precisely where they're keeping Malloryn. So not only do we have to locate him, we're going to have to rescue him with all eyes upon us.
"And if I were Balfour, I'd lock Malloryn up so tight it would be an almost impossible break and enter," Charlie told her, the corner of his mouth lifting in an almost irresistible smile. "My friend Byrnes thinks we can't do it. Help me prove him wrong."
It was so incredibly tempting.
He was saying all the right things, and it stirred her competitive nature like nothing else.
"No." She sunk enough steel into her voice that Charlie flinched. Lark pushed to her feet, ignoring her bloodied tea. "My answer is no."
"Why not?"
She tossed him the coat he'd loaned her. "Because when I work with you, I become someone else. I take risks, even when I know better. It's all about the thrill of the challenge, the adventure, the chase."
And I forget everything when you smile at me.
"You've never been one to play it safe," he said, in an incredulous voice. "Half the time we got into trouble as children, it was because of something you'd planned."
All she could think of was Tin Man's warning: You cannot afford to draw attention, Irinka. You must be small. Quiet. Unnoticeable. Small is safe.
"I'm sorry." She started walking away.
"Do svidanya, Lark," Charlie murmured, behind her.
For a second she didn't think she'd heard him correctly. The floor dropped out from beneath her feet.
Lark spun around. "What did you just say?"
Charlie flashed her one of his old smiles as he stood; it lit the world, blinding in its sincerity. "Gemma's been teaching me some Russian."
"Why?"
His blue eyes locked on her, and he shrugged. "Don't worry about it. You don't want to be involved, so I won't involve you."
Veritable fortresses. Impossible break and enter.
There was not a damned castle or bank in England she couldn't crack, if she'd half a mind.
But what if he wasn't talking about England?
Her blood ran cold.
"Charlie!" She strode toward him, snatching at his sleeve. "Where is the job?"
"Russia."
"Are you insane?" He had to be. The Crimson Court wasn't the Echelon. It had been considered uncouth among the Echelon to slit a thrall's throat even in the days before the revolution; the Blood had no such compunctions.
If you weren't Blood, you were a tool.
And if you weren't useful, you were prey.
"No," she whispered, her fingers curling in his sleeve as if she could somehow shackle him. "Promise me you won't leave these shores."
He pried her fingers loose.
"The Duke of Malloryn thinks no one's coming to rescue him, Lark. It's been two weeks. Balfour will have him in his clutches by now, and he hates Malloryn. I cannot just leave him there. Malloryn would come for me. That's what a Rogue does."
"I can't come with you."
Not to Russia.
She'd sworn an oath of blood to Tin Man that she'd never go back. She'd stood over his grave and promised him he hadn't sacrifi
ced his life for nothing. She'd stop taking risks. She'd try to live her life the way he'd wanted for her.
Charlie pulled free. "That's your choice. But I'm making mine. If I can't have the best, then I'll have to find someone else to watch my back."
"You manipulative son of a bitch."
"Now, now, Lark."
He turned toward the door, leaving her stricken.
"We leave in two days from the airfields in Battersea," he called over his shoulder as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "At dawn. If you want in, don't be late. I won't wait for you."
And Lark shivered as all the ghosts of her past started laughing at her.
Lark paced the wash chambers as her bath filled, unable to calm herself. Not even the haul of gems from the Golorukov job could distract her. She'd pushed the entire lot into Foley's hands without even bothering to evaluate them.
"What the hell is he thinking?" she hissed.
A job in Russia?
Taking on the entire Crimson Court?
Lord Balfour?
If Charlie were lucky he'd only have his throat cut, his body dumped in a shallow grave. If he was unlucky....
Suddenly she couldn't breathe. All she could see was fire. A manor burning. A little girl crying out, "Mamochka!"
But mama was not going to come. Not this time.
Damn it. She'd thought she'd left Russia and all her nightmares behind.
A decisive rap came at the door, slicing through the memories. Lark forced the world into focus again.
"Maid service," a voice called.
Meddling bloody males, that's what it was.
But there was no point ignoring him. This was his house, after all.
Lark turned the tap off, trying to contain her nervousness. Blue bloods had no personal scent, but Blade could read her like a book.
"Come in."
The door opened, revealing a figure dressed in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a vibrant red velvet waistcoat that fit his lean form like a glove. An unlit cheroot dangled from his long, elegant fingers as he rested one arm against the doorjamb. Blade didn't smoke in the house anymore now that he was married. Honoria didn't approve. But he often carried a cheroot, just to smell it on occasion.
"Blade," she greeted.
A shabby old cat wove around his boots, and Blade leaned down and picked him up. Puss was getting on in years, and his rookery jaunts were limited now to the Warren and the bricked yard out back, but as his yellow eyes locked on her and he purred, a new scar across his face showed there was still some fight left in the old bugger.
"Have you been fighting again?" she cooed, scratching the tom under his chin. "What did I say about picking fights these days?"
"The ol' man about town's got to keep up 'is swagger," Blade said, "or all the other toms'll think they can just slink on in and steal 'is turf."
"You would know."
Blade moved so fast she barely saw it, clipping the edge of her ear. "I ain't that old. Yet."
"Aren't we celebrating your fifty-sixth birthday next month?" Lark asked innocently. He looked barely thirty, but that was thanks to the craving virus.
Nobody was quite certain what a blue blood's natural life expectancy was, but some were nearing their second century.
"Bloody children," he growled, rolling his eyes. "Smart mouths on the lot o' you. When you're a blue blood, fifty ain't that old."
Lark sighed. "You ain't here for the chatter. What d'you want?"
Blade set his fingertips under her chin and tilted her face up. "Any reason you're wearin' a rut in the floorboards? ’Eard young Charlie was askin' for you."
Here it came.
Lark pushed away. Growing up in the Warren felt somewhat akin to having half a dozen grumpy, overprotective uncles who meddled in everything she did. It drove her halfway to Bedlam as a young girl, and yet, there was a part of her that wished she could curl up in Blade's lap again and tell him everything.
The Devil of Whitechapel was the most feared man in London, but she'd never felt safer than in his arms.
"Aye. It's Charlie," she replied, running her fingers through the bathwater absently. Careful now. "He wants my help with a dangerous job."
"Dangerous?" Blade's voice sharpened. Charlie was Honoria's younger brother, and any threat to Honoria's peace of mind or happiness would be met with a knife.
Lark spilled the little she knew.
"The Duke o' Malloryn, eh?" Blade scrubbed at his mouth as he set the cat down. "Thought ‘e was in Norway, makin’ nice with our Scandinavian verwulfen friends. They been ‘oldin’ council meetin’s for the last two weeks, ‘til ‘e gets back, and Lynch’s been coverin’ ‘is duties." He narrowed his green eyes on her. "But that ain't what's got you sweatin'. What's wrong?"
"The job's in Russia."
Silence.
She risked a look over her shoulder.
"No." The word was definite. Final. "When I took you and Tin Man off the streets, 'e sold me 'is loyalty on one condition: I protect you. I keep you safe, and 'e'd lay down 'is life for me if need be." Blade's voice softened with menace. "Well, 'e did. Workin' for me cost 'im everythin' in the end. I owe 'im, Lark. And I always pay me debts. You ain't goin' to Russia."
Until that moment, she hadn't realized her decision had been made.
Lark tipped her chin up. She loved him, truly she did, but.... "How are you going to stop me?"
Blade stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The sound it made echoed like a jail cell slamming shut. "You really want to play that card?"
"Blade." Suddenly she couldn't breathe. "I can't let him go alone. Charlie doesn't have the faintest clue what he's walking into. The Crimson Court will eat him alive."
"Thought you still weren't really talkin' to 'im?"
She flushed. They'd had words about that over the years. "Doesn't mean I want to see him hurt."
Or worse.
Dead.
"Do you think you could talk him out of it?" she asked.
Blade scrubbed at his stubble. "Boy's more stubborn'n you are when 'e wants to be." His brow twitched. "Don't know where 'e gets that from."
Her temper flared. No talk of locking Charlie up and throwing away the key. "How come he gets a choice?"
"Because 'e ain't likely to get distracted with thoughts of revenge."
Lark froze.
She'd never truly worked out how much Blade knew of her past circumstances. There'd been hints, here and there, but he'd never brought it up.
How much had Tin Man told him?
"I just want to protect Charlie," she finally said. "I'm not looking for trouble. Hell, Blade. I know how dangerous the Blood are. I can't afford to provoke trouble. If I had my way, I'd never set foot there again, but I don't. If neither of us can convince him not to take this damned job, then someone has to stop him from getting his throat slit. I won't even have time to think of revenge."
"Promise me?" His voice held an edge to it.
"I promise."
"Swear on Tin Man's grave?"
Lark looked away furiously. "I swear."
"Fine. I'll allow it."
Lark's head shot up. "You will?"
"On one condition...."
Chapter 3
Gulls wheeled through the skies as Charlie strode up the gangplank and onto the deck of the Valkyrie with his bag slung over his shoulder. The airship hummed with the vibration of the boilers warming up, and the vast gondola overhead shaded the deck. Ostensibly the airship looked like a passenger cutter—small and built for speed—but if he leaned over the edge, he could see that the cargo hold was deeper than it ought to be.
Smuggler?
Certainly not quite as benign as she pretended to be.
A pair of men argued on the fore observation deck. He recognized the taller man immediately. Lean and whip-sharp, Leo Barrons clapped the man on the shoulder, they both laughed, and then Leo turned and looked at him.
Sometimes it felt like looking into a mirror when he s
aw Barrons. An older, thinner, slightly more ruthless mirror.
In fact, they looked so much alike that one glimpse of Charlie had nearly brought about Leo's downfall in society. Leo might claim to be the Duke of Caine's heir, but he was very clearly sired by Charlie's own father, Sir Artemus Todd.
"Charlie," Leo said, striding toward him with a dangerous smile. A ruby earring winked in his ear, and he was clothed in strict black. Despite his elegant, aristocratic manners, he looked like the sort of man who ought to be boarding other airships with a cutlass in hand. "Are you ready for Russia?"
It had been Gemma's idea to involve Leo in the mission.
Not only was he Malloryn's closest—possibly only—friend, but he was also the excuse they needed to arrive safely in Russia. As a member of the Council of Dukes who advised the queen, this wasn't Leo's first diplomatic mission to the Crimson Court.
The tsarina was celebrating 121 years since her coronation, and highly-ranked political figures from around Europe had all been invited. While the figure was hardly an auspicious number, there were rumors that she was rapidly approaching the Fade—when all the color drained out of a blue blood and they started devolving into something far less human.
A vampire.
According to Gemma's intel, the tsarina was being forced by certain members of her cabinet into formally announcing an heir out of one of her impossible sprawl of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Apparently, the heir presumptive had had her favorite grandson murdered, which had seen him excluded from the succession, and now the rest of them were making power plays.
Nothing like waltzing into a quagmire of bloodthirsty politics to really keep one on their toes.
"Is Russia ready for me?" Charlie grinned, then reached out and brushed imaginary dust off Leo's shoulder. "You're looking rather diplomatic."
"And you... don't. Gemma tells me you're allegedly one of my aides. I hope you've packed something suitable for mincing around at court."
Charlie grimaced. "Gemma and Herbert have organized all aspects of our wardrobes. I'm sure it's suitably gaudy."
"Did someone say my name?"
As if summoned, Gemma appeared in a brisk whirlwind of action. She strode across the deck, clad in a dark blue velvet gown and tight jacket with a slash of skirt in pale mauve showing. A jaunty little hat sat at a cocky angle on her glossy black curls, and a choker of pearls caught his attention. It was the sort of outfit his sister, Lena, would have adored.