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

by Bec McMaster

  Lark pressed her fingers to Yekaterina's gown, wishing she'd told her sister how much she loved her when she'd had the chance. She could almost remember sitting for the portrait. Baby Evgeni fussed and cried the whole time, wanting to be free to roam, and all she could recall was feeling the same resentment.

  "Lark." Charlie ghosted back down the hallway toward her.

  She let the flap of canvas fall. She had a job to do. There was no point dwelling on the past, and yet her heart hurt in her chest as if the muscles were squeezing tight.

  "Found anything?"

  "Nothing," he signed. "Just dust, soot, and broken furniture."

  They moved on, working methodically.

  Ghosts haunted the palace, but they were her ghosts. There was no sign of anything else.

  "I'll check down the hall," Charlie signed.

  Nodding, Lark opened the door to her father's study, wincing at the creak. The carpets weren't as dusty here, but she couldn't be certain if someone had passed by, or whether the room had been sealed away from most of the damage.

  Hidden passages riddled the palace. She could recall playing hide and seek with Nikolai and Yekaterina. Lark crossed to the fireplace and felt around for the small indentation beneath the decorative corner piece. If anyone were trying to hide a kidnapped duke, it would be in the passages.

  A whisper of wind swept over the back of her neck.

  She spun, but the room remained empty.

  Cold. Still. Quiet.

  There's no one here, she told herself, but suddenly she wasn't so certain if there weren't ghosts, after all.

  Lark let the seconds tick out, her mouth going dry. Where the hell was Charlie?

  Pressing the indentation made the fireplace click, and the entire brick wall swiveled open on silent hinges.

  Slipping into the narrow staircase, she glanced up the moonlit stairs. There'd been dust in the ballroom and bedrooms. Leaning down, she brushed her fingers against the middle of the stairs. Exactly as she'd suspected: no dust. Someone used these passages regularly.

  Sliding her knife into her hand, she ghosted up the stairs.

  They led to one of the towers overlooking the river. The shutters were open, gaslights twinkling in the distance.

  Lark crossed to the desk, a replica of the one in her father's study. There were several ledgers and books resting on its surface, and no sign of dust. Several unused candles sat in ornate holders, and there was fresh ink in the inkwell. Someone visited this place frequently. Someone who didn't want others to know he or she was here.

  She needed to get out of here.

  But as if some part of the predator within her sensed it was too late, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

  "I thought I heard little mice scurrying around."

  Lark spun around and jumped when she saw the figure standing in the doorway. Her heart thundered behind her sternum, every sense she owned suddenly on high alert. No way past him. No way out, unless she leapt through one of the windows, and she of all people knew how long the fall was from here.

  For a second she wondered if all this talk of ghosts had gotten to her, and whether he was really there or not.

  Until she saw the stretch of shadow beneath his cloak.

  "Who are you?" she whispered, drawing the pistol strapped to her hip.

  Chapter 12

  "The question is... who are you?" demanded the stranger in flawless Russian.

  Lark kept her pistol aimed directly at him, her heart stuttering in her chest. Where the hell had he come from?

  "So you're one of the famed ghosts of Grigoriev Dvorets," she said boldly. No wonder locals had caught a glimpse of lights gleaming through the darkened windows of the palace.

  "A ghost, am I?" His smile flashed like the edge of a knife. "I suppose you could say that. And yourself?"

  Lark backed toward the wall as he took a step toward her. "Don't move."

  Coldly elegant in a black velvet coat with a black silk cravat, he closed his knuckles around the silver-tipped handle of his cane. A slash of shadow hid his face. "If you wanted to shoot me, you would have."

  "Don't think I won't if I need to," she said coldly. "But I don't know who else is here with you. I'd prefer not to bring them all running if I don't have to."

  His smile softened, but it wasn't friendly at all. No, it seemed as though she'd amused him, though she couldn't make out the top half of his face with the shadow falling like that.

  "Where's my friend?" she asked, for Charlie should have noticed the open fireplace.

  "Currently occupied."

  That did it. Lark was used to looking over her shoulder and thriving on the edge of danger. But any threat to Charlie....

  "If you've hurt him...."

  "He's having a lovely little chat with one of my lieutenants right now. His future depends upon how cooperative he can be. I'd be more concerned about yours."

  He stepped forward, swinging the cane.

  They circled each other, with Lark balanced on the balls of her feet as she summed him up.

  Taller than she was. Armed with that cane and who knew what else, though there was a faint limp when he moved. Right leg by the look of it. Could be a weakness. Could also be a ploy.

  She had the pistol, true, but she'd only have time for one shot and if he was a blue blood, it would need to be straight through the head or heart.

  "I'm curious as to what you're doing here," he murmured. "As you can see, there's nothing to steal. And a sharp penalty for those who attempt it."

  "Maybe I came to see if the ghosts are real."

  He leaped forward, smashing the pistol from her hand with the cane. Pain clawed through her hand, but she had to move. Now.

  She turned, leaped onto the desk, and lunged toward the window. Her heel caught the ledge, and Lark threw herself back into a flip, landing directly behind him on the rug as he launched toward her. Sweeping low, she took his left foot out from under him, hooking her ankle behind his.

  The stranger hit the rug, rolling swiftly into a crouch. A glint of silver flashed in his gloved hand. A knife, held backwards along his forearm, like a man who'd learned to fight in close quarters.

  Fine.

  Lark flicked both her knives into her hands, settling her fingers through the brass knuckles that were attached to the top of the hilt. They made for a dangerous stab-punch combination that gave her the extra edge when she was facing people who were larger and stronger than she was.

  He feinted forward, and Lark was forced into a complicated defense that required every ounce of her attention. There was something else in his left hand, though she couldn't quite see what it was, and it made her wary.

  "You're good." The stranger held up his left hand. "But I am better."

  He threw the thing at the floor, and smoke suddenly erupted around her. Lark started choking, waving her hand to try and see where he was coming from.

  Get out of the smoke! Now!

  She clawed her way backward, her eyes stinging and her knives slashing blindly.

  The faint creak of the floorboard behind her alerted her a second before a sharp blow smashed across the back of her head.

  Lark staggered off balance, trying to catch herself. A fist curled in her hair, hauling her backwards and her bludgeoned scalp screamed with pain until she could barely see.

  Then an arm locked around her shoulders, hauling her back against a chest, and a knife cut into her throat.

  "No one will hear you scream in the House of Wolves," whispered a female voice. "Drop the knives."

  House of Wolves.

  Holy shit. She'd walked directly into the clutches of the Chernyye Volki who'd murdered her family.

  Lark obeyed and her knives clattered against the floor. She wouldn't get a second warning.

  "Wait, Chiyoh!" the stranger barked, gliding out of the dissipating smoke. "Don't kill her."

  The knife eased against her throat.

  "Niko," the woman warned. "She could be an a
ssassin."

  "She could be." He strode toward Lark. "But a dead assassin tells no tales. Convince me to spare your life. Whom are you working for?"

  Lark's eyes rolled. She couldn't see who had her, but the woman was taller than she was. And the knife was sharp.

  "The Ravens? The Feodorevna’s? Sergey?"

  "No one! And I'm not an assassin!"

  He tore the scarf from Lark's mouth and nose and flicked his fingers. A burst of light seared her eyes, making her flinch back into the caress of the woman holding her. It looked like some sort of magic, but she could hear the chemical hiss of something as it burned.

  Then she was looking into a face carved of angles; all cheekbones and fine aquiline nose. Full, almost sulky mouth, and hazel eyes that sat beneath dark brows.

  The pair of them started.

  It was like looking into a mirror. A male mirror.

  "What devilry is this?" he breathed.

  Lark forgot everything. The knife at her throat. The fight. She could barely breathe. "Who are you?" she whispered.

  "Let her go," the stranger snarled.

  "Are you certain—"

  "Did I just give you an order?" He turned those cold eyes on the woman he'd called Chiyoh.

  Lark suddenly staggered as the knife left her throat. She crouched low, instinct preparing her to defend herself, but shock rampaged through her system.

  She couldn't have run in that moment, even if she'd wanted to.

  "Kolya?" she whispered, for the woman had called him Niko.

  From what she'd managed to piece together after the attack, the carriage carrying her brothers and father was assaulted on the way home by a handful of unknown assassins.

  Ones hired by Sergey, of course.

  But if there was a possibility Dmitri had escaped, then why not Nikolai too?

  But why...? Why was he not the Prince of Tsaritsyn?

  Why had Sergey been sighted here?

  Was he working with Sergey?

  With... the enemy?

  Niko grabbed her by the throat, slamming her back against the wall and putting the tip of his knife directly to her carotid. Any hint of warmth evaporated from his face, his eyes as a deadly as a shark's. "You think this is a game? Who hired you? Who paid you?" He turned her face to each side, examining every inch of her. "It's an excellent likeness, to be sure, but it's not difficult to find a second-rate actress. Did they think I'd be merciful if I saw your face?"

  Lark clung to his wrist, trying to ease the press of the blade. "Nobody... paid me." She tilted her head back, trying not to breathe too sharply. "Was looking for... a... friend."

  "In Grigoriev Palace?" A sneer curled his lip. "Do you think me a fool? You went straight for the passageway. You knew how to open it. Who gave you that information?"

  Someone had been watching her all along.

  Nobody told me. I knew it was there, she wanted to scream.

  But Tin Man's voice echoed in her memories.

  Don't ever tell anyone who you are, sweet Irinka. You have no allies in this world. Only enemies.

  And she couldn't be certain this man was her brother—or where his allegiances lay. She needed to know more.

  "A man. Didn't know... you were here. Not after you."

  "Your story has more holes in it than Swiss cheese." He leaned so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. "And you're a fool. This is the home of the Chernyye Volki. Nobody comes here. And if they do, then they don't ever leave."

  The Black Wolves were the murderers who'd stolen her family from her upon Sergey's orders. This couldn't be Kolya. Her smiling, charming brother would never have fallen in with those who murdered his kin.

  "Lark?" Charlie whispered.

  Both their attention shot to the passage.

  Then Chiyoh moved toward the door with long, ground-eating strides.

  "Don't come in!" Lark screamed in English, driving her hand up into this Niko's wrist.

  It slipped from her throat and he staggered forward as she ducked beneath his arm. Lark spun, driving an elbow into his ribs.

  The knife whistled toward her.

  She leaped back, and it cut through the air where her abdomen had been only moments before.

  Lark kicked up, smashing the knife from his fingers.

  Then the pair of them were facing each other, crouching low. Blood trickled from the faint cut at her throat.

  "Lark?" Charlie's voice sounded frantic, and she could hear the sounds of scuffling behind her, but didn't dare take her eyes off the man in front of her.

  "Lark," the stranger repeated. "An unusual name. You'll tell me your real one before we're done."

  He lunged forward and Lark sidestepped, chopping down with the flat of her hand. Blow after blow came at her; a punch clipping her jaw and sending her reeling.

  She caught a glimpse of one of her discarded knives and threw herself toward it, just as he pounced. The stranger slammed into her, and they both went down, but Lark swiveled, locking her hips around his and sending them both tumbling. She was used to wrestling with men far larger than she, and Blade had never gone easy upon her.

  Easy gets you dead, he'd always said. A man comes at you in a dark alley, and 'e ain't intendin' to be kind.

  Somehow her hand curled around her knife.

  A fist drove into her ribs, but she clung to his hips. Lark rolled over the top of him, her knife nicking his throat. He kicked up with his hips and she flew over the top of him, turning it into a roll.

  Then Charlie was at her side, hauling her to her feet. "Run!" he yelled, launching toward the windows.

  Heart in her throat, she leaped through the enormous pane of glass at his side. It shattered and then the courtyard came into sharp review.

  Shirt flapping against her arms, Lark tried to brace herself as the roof flew up to meet them. It was at such an angle she knew she'd never be able to gain her feet, so when she hit, she rolled forward, trying to turn momentum to her use. If there was one thing she was thankful for, it was all those years racing Charlie through the rookeries. Pushing her body to the limits and defying gravity until she'd been virtually a cat.

  The world whipped around her as she tumbled, her shoulder slamming into hard slate tiles.

  No time to think.

  Just react.

  She hit the gutter and launched herself toward the narrow garden wall. Knees flexing as she landed, she rolled forward, gripped the wall in both hands, and then lowered herself off it. Her body slammed against the wall, but from there it was a simple drop down onto hard stones.

  Charlie landed, hands slapping the cobblestones as he rolled. Lark was at his side in an instant.

  "Come on." Panting hard, she glanced up at the window of the tower.

  The stranger who wore her brother's face leaned on the ledge of the shattered window, his hair lifting in the breeze.

  "Let us see if you can run as well as you can fall," he called down to them.

  From the inside of the palace, a chorus of howls suddenly erupted from human throats.

  And everything within Lark tensed as the sound of her nightmares thrust her straight back into the past.

  Men fanned through the palace grounds like wraiths in the dark.

  Charlie squatted behind a bunch of bushes, one hand on Lark's back as he tried to pick a path through the sentries. Tremors shook through her. They were both bleeding from dozens of cuts along their arms and legs, though he hadn't realized he was even injured until his heart started to slow down from its mad rush.

  There was only one conclusion he could draw.

  "We're trapped," he breathed in Lark's ear.

  Hell of a place to make a last stand. He hadn't caught much of a glimpse of the man Lark had been fighting when he'd entered, but the woman who'd faced him had been hellishly dangerous with a knife. These people didn't intend to let them escape.

  "Lark?"

  She didn't look very good. Her eyes showed too much white, and the darkness of her pupils had
swallowed the color of her irises as the hunger rose within her. Usually this was when a blue blood was at its most dangerous, but sometimes the hunger roused when it knew it was under threat.

  "I'm all right," she whispered, and gestured toward the long hedge in front of them. "In there. We can lose them in there."

  "It looks like a bloody overgrown maze," he said, balking.

  "It is. Trust me. I'll get us out of here."

  And then he had no choice but to follow when she dashed into it.

  True to her word, Lark's decision to escape through the maze paid off. They took one wrong turn, which brought them dangerously close to their pursuers when they doubled back, but Lark guided them through with grim determination.

  "How the hell do you know which way to turn?" he'd demanded at one point.

  "It's easy. I figured it out in the first minute. Left, then right, then left again...."

  And then they were racing through the streets, chased by the howls of their pursuers.

  Crossing the bridge was out of the question—he saw two cloaked figures hiding in the shadows near it—so Charlie led them along the river and stole a boat.

  In hindsight, it wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, but as dawn silvered the skies he saw other boats out there, fishermen beginning to ply their trade. They could slip unnoticed back across the Neva with no one the wiser.

  Lark hunched in the front of the boat as Charlie rowed. He'd expected her to make some sort of quip about "have you ever rowed before," but she was oddly silent. Knuckles splayed white as she gripped her knees, as if she were physically holding herself together.

  He'd never seen her like this before.

  "I guess that answers that question," he murmured. "No Malloryn. Only the heart of the Black Wolves’ territory. Guess it could have been worse. There could have been vampires."

  Nothing.

  "Or even enormous clockwork spiders. Who knows what sort of tech they have here. Did you see those war machines we flew over outside the city?"

  Still nothing.

  "Here." He set the oars into their locks and knelt in front of her. Wasn't as if they were going anywhere in a hurry anyway. "Let me see your arms."