Mission_Improper

by Bec McMaster

  even start to believe it.

  Boxes and crates crowded the benches, and

  Jack muttered under his breath as he limped

  through the darkness. "Down the end here! Give us

  a lift, will you?"

  Ingrid grabbed the box he'd indicated and

  carried it toward him.

  Jack turned, his breathing mask hanging loose

  under his chin. Evidently the air down here didn't

  affect his lungs too much, which was a good sign.

  It scared her when he suffered one of his attacks,

  and they'd been coming far too frequently for her

  liking of late.

  He took one look at her eyes and started.

  "What is it? What's set you off?"

  Her eyes were hot, and she knew that the

  amber irises were flaring a dramatic bronze with

  her mood. There was no point even trying to hide

  it, and Ingrid trusted Jack. Ingrid dumped the crate

  on the bench, growling under her breath.

  "Malloryn's given me a new partner."

  "Oh?" Jack crossed his arms over his

  flamboyant waistcoat, though he moved slowly.

  Once, a long time ago, the man who'd put Ingrid in

  a cage had poured acid all over Jack's skin. Ingrid

  hadn't expected him to survive, not with all of

  those runnels and scarred pits in his flesh, but he

  had. Jack was a survivor, just like her. But the

  damage made him stiff, and ginger to the touch.

  "Anyone I know?"

  "Caleb Byrnes."

  Watching her in a sidelong fashion, Jack slid

  the crate lid open. "Not a name I'm familiar with."

  Ingrid hadn't told him. She hadn't told anyone

  about what had happened a year ago, though Jack’s

  sister Rosa had somehow found out about it. Most

  likely through her husband, Lynch, who used to be

  the guild master of the Nighthawks. "He's a

  Nighthawk."

  "One of the new recruits, eh? You don't care

  for him?" Jack hefted a microscope, wincing under

  the strain.

  Ingrid stepped forward quickly and lifted it

  easily out of its nest of straw.

  "Thanks," Jack told her, red spots heating his

  cheeks. "So why does the Nighthawk bother you?"

  Ingrid slid onto the bench and let her feet

  dangle. "I've met him before. We worked together

  last year during the Vampire of Drury Lane case."

  "Ah."

  "Ah?"

  "I remember that case," he replied, wiping his

  hands on his pants. "You weren't at all yourself for

  nearly two weeks. I wondered what had set you

  off. Or more importantly, who."

  "It's not the who, so much as the how. He

  makes me... so angry." Which wasn't quite the truth.

  "Angry, or uncertain?"

  Ingrid shot him a dark look. "Curse you. Both.

  I don't know what he makes me feel." Too small for

  her own skin, irritable, competitive... nervous.

  "What does he look like?" Jack moved to

  pour her a brandy, which was her poison of choice.

  "He's a little taller than I and ridiculously

  muscled." Or at least if her memory could be

  believed. "Lean, dangerous-looking, the type of

  blue eyes that can pin you on the spot and make you

  feel naked."

  "Handsome?"

  Incredibly so. "If one is interested in dark-

  haired men, then yes."

  "Here's to handsome dark-haired men, then."

  Jack smiled, as he clinked his glass against hers.

  Ingrid threw the brandy back. "There was... a

  bit of a moment between us last year."

  "I'd guessed that. Do tell."

  "We made a bet," she said, then filled him in

  on the details, including the fact that she'd left

  Byrnes tied to his bed. Naked.

  Jack's eyebrows were both halfway to his

  hairline. "Good God. What were you thinking?" A

  laugh escaped him, then another. "Or were you?"

  "It's not bloody funny," she said, which of

  course set him off laughing again. "I was quite

  prepared to enjoy what I'd started until he opened

  that fat mouth of his and said something along the

  lines of 'I knew I'd get you on your knees

  eventually,' and then of course I reacted badly."

  She groaned. "It was not my finest hour, but he...

  I... God, stop it, will you!"

  Jack leaned against the bench, wiping his

  eyes. One last wheeze of laughter escaped him,

  then he tried to sober. "So what are you going to

  do?"

  "I have to work with him, clearly," she said.

  "Whilst keeping him at arm's length. And that's if I

  don't kill him first. He's already headed off to

  follow his own leads."

  “How vexing. Are you going to let him get

  away with it?”

  "Absolutely not." She crossed her arms over

  her chest. "I am not going to let that man get under

  my skin ever again. I swear."

  "You could just go to bed with him and burn

  this curiosity out of your blood, you know.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous. And there is no

  ‘curiosity.’” But her cheeks heated.

  “Liar,” Jack replied.

  Ingrid lifted her head as noise rasped above

  them. "And that sounds like a saw. Ava must be

  starting the autopsy. I wanted to be there to see it."

  "Just in case you learn some interesting little

  tidbit that might give you the head start on

  Byrnes?" Jack's smile was pure innocence.

  "It's tempting, I agree. Then I remember

  there's a dead woman upstairs who will never get

  to return home to her family, and it reminds me that

  there are more important things to life than

  rivalry." Ingrid sighed as a woman's half-

  remembered face sprang to mind, a face that

  looked like hers. Sometimes she wondered if she

  were only imagining those bronze eyes and dark

  hair, or whether it truly was a memory. "What if

  this poor girl has children at home, Jack? Or a

  husband waiting for her?"

  "You're thinking of your parents. You'll find

  them one day, Ingrid."

  She merely shrugged. The telegram burned a

  hole in her pocket. Hope couldn't burn bright

  forever, but if she couldn't find her own parents,

  then at least she could bring the dead girl home to

  hers. "I have to find the people who did this so I

  can help lay that poor woman to rest. And if that

  means working with Byrnes, then I can lay aside

  my pride for the moment."

  "Just be careful. If that woman was torn apart

  by some sort of animal, then you might be dealing

  with more than you can handle. You're not

  invincible, Ingrid, though you might be damned

  hard to kill."

  Ingrid paused to brush a kiss across his cheek.

  "I love you too. But you can be an old fusspot at

  times."

  BACK AT THE GUILD, Byrnes finally collapsed

  into his sheets after a long fruitless search through

  the archives. The only comparison between the

  cases was the use of Doeppler orbs to dispel the

  gas, and the fact that people had died. Once
again,

  if the killer had been a blue blood in a blood

  frenzy, then they wouldn't have stopped. There

  would have been more bodies, more blood.

  Not a trail that vanished.

  His lead had shriveled into nothing.

  So what else did they have? What did the

  Begby Square disappearances have in common

  with the Venetian Gardens, besides the missing

  people?

  No signs of a struggle. That wasn't much use,

  and Ava was working on that. An unidentified

  body, ravaged by... something. No lead there. Not

  yet. His mind threw up an image of the flag that had

  been painted in blood.

  There'd been a black flag painted on the walls

  near Begby Square. The same letter there too, a

  “0.”

  He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen

  that black flag symbol before. The more he

  worried at it, like a dog with a bone, the more

  convinced he became.

  But where, damn it?

  He was just falling off to sleep when he

  finally realized where he'd seen it.

  Byrnes's eyes shot open. "Debney."

  FIVE

  IT WAS THE early hours of the following morning

  before the door to Debney's bedroom opened and

  the young viscount staggered in, kicking the door

  shut with one boot even as he tried to remove his

  striped coat. And failed. Debney staggered,

  looking down as though somewhat perplexed by

  the way his elbow simply wouldn't bend out of the

  way.

  Bloody hell. He was soused.

  "A good night by the look of it, Debney,"

  Byrnes said, stretching in the chair he'd been

  napping in. Every Nighthawk knew how to snatch a

  few winks of sleep here and there when they were

  on a case.

  Debney nearly jumped out of his pale skin,

  tripping over a pair of boots that had been left on

  the floor and knocking a tray of cologne off the top

  of his vanity. It bounced, luckily. "Blood and ashes,

  Caleb! Give a man a fit next time.... What are you

  doing skulking about in my bedchamber?" Sneering

  slightly, he used the tip of his boot to lift the

  baseboard quilt around the hem of his bed. "No

  murderers tucked under 'ere, eh?"

  "By the look of it, nothing but cobwebs and

  dust." Byrnes took a sniff. "Were you swimming in

  a vat of brandy?"

  Clearly the viscount had been participating in

  a rather dedicated spree of dissipation if he was

  coming home this late after the sun had risen, but

  Byrnes had smelled gin hovels in Whitechapel

  whose scent was less inclined to knock him off his

  feet.

  Debney sprawled back on the bed, lifting his

  heel. "'Ere. Help me get these off."

  Byrnes stood and took a slow circuit of the

  room, trying to breathe through his mouth. "I'm not

  your valet, Francis. Get them off yourself." Picking

  up one of the sprawled bottles of cologne, he

  ignored the young viscount and took an

  experimental sniff, then recoiled. How anybody

  could wear so many chemicals astounded him. You

  wouldn't be able to smell anything else.

  Slight improvement on Debney though.

  Debney grunted, and then a boot hit the floor.

  With a sigh, he collapsed back on the bed. "So

  what do you want?"

  Taking the jug of water on the washstand,

  Byrnes poured a glass, then crossed to the bed,

  considering the state of the viscount. "I need to ask

  you some questions about something, and I can't

  explain why."

  Debney sighed, his eyelids fluttering closed.

  Byrnes threw the glass of water in his face.

  "Jesus!" Debney came up, wide-eyed and

  wet. "You sodding bastard!" He looked down at

  himself, hands held wide. "What was that for?"

  "To wake you up." Byrnes put the glass aside,

  then dragged his chair around and resettled in it.

  Tugging a piece of paper from his pocket, he held

  up the photograph of the Begby Square black flag.

  "Have you seen this symbol before?"

  He'd thought that nothing would sober Debney

  up at this rate, but the second the viscount saw the

  picture, his face paled even further and his Adam's

  apple bobbed in his throat. "Put that away. I'm

  going to cast up my accounts."

  Byrnes complied, watching as his half brother

  stumbled to the basin and retched. Hell. He rubbed

  at his temples. "I know I saw an invitation with that

  symbol embossed upon it on your desk a few

  months ago."

  Debney spat and rinsed then turned, giving

  him a frightened look. "I don't know what you're

  working on. I don't care. But if you go digging into

  that symbol, then you won't find whatever puzzle

  piece you're looking for. You'll simply die, Caleb."

  Well, now. Byrnes took his chair again,

  resting his elbows on his knees. "You know who's

  behind it."

  Debney shook his head. "Don't. I beg of you.

  If they find out I told you about it—"

  "How are they going to find out? Nobody

  knows of the connection between us." A connection

  he'd be quite pleased to keep quiet forever.

  "They'll find out. They always do," Debney

  protested.

  "Who are they?"

  "Caleb—"

  "If you think I'm going to leave this alone, then

  you don't know me very well," Byrnes replied. "I

  can make your life hell, Francis. Besides..." His

  eyes narrowed to thin slits. "You owe me."

  "I always bloody owe you," Debney snapped,

  pacing the room. "When will it end? You cannot

  keep calling in this debt! Do you think that if I

  could go back and change things, then I wouldn't? I

  would. I swear, I would. I'd have sent word to the

  Council that his craving virus levels were high. Or

  I'd have... stood up to him—"

  "If you could go back, you'd cower behind

  your mother's skirts the same way you did then."

  An abrupt slice of the hand cut the young lord off in

  his tracks. "Let's not pretend any different."

  "He always—"

  "We're not talking about your father," Byrnes

  countered, and the crack of his voice startled

  Debney into silence. "Not now. Not ever."

  Sullen and starting to shake now, Debney

  stared at him belligerently. "Unless you want

  something," he said, "and use him to browbeat me

  into complying. And he's your father too! This is

  the last time, Caleb. The last. I do this, and I don't

  owe you anything else. Do you understand?"

  "Perfectly. Tell me what I need to know and

  I'll never bother you again."

  Something about Debney's eyes caught his

  attention. A sudden, stricken expression.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded.

  "It doesn't matter." The viscount collapsed on

  the bed. "It's not like you'd care anyway, or as if I

  mean anything to you."

  Byrnes stared at him.

  Debney saw his perple
xed look and laughed.

  "Look at you. Not even a hint of consternation. You

  just want to know about your precious black flag. It

  wouldn't bother you to walk away and never look

  back, would it?"

  For the first time, Byrnes felt some stir of

  emotion, hot and bloody. He'd been trying not to

  think about it, but this house—and all the memories

  it contained—disconcerted him. "No. It wouldn't."

  Debney looked away. "They're called the

  Sons of Gilead. Don't ask me why. I'm hardly in

  favor at the moment."

  S.O. G. Everything inside him lit on fire.

  "Who are they?"

  "A group of disgruntled Echelon lords who

  don't like the new world order the queen has

  presented us with."

  "Names?"

  Debney's nostrils flared. "Caleb—"

  "Who are you protecting? Yourself? Your

  friends? Are they involved?"

  "I don't have any friends, curse you. Look

  around. I'm certain it hasn't escaped your notice

  that I'm distinctly short of a valet at the moment. I

  had to let my thrall go earlier this year too—I

  couldn't afford to pay her the pin money the queen

  insists every thrall must receive, thanks to her new

  laws, so Elsie had to return to her father. In the

  eyes of the Echelon I'm in dun territory. Creditors

  keep hounding me, and my so-called friends seem

  to have vanished off the face of the earth. My

  mother's dead, my brother wants nothing to do with

  me, and even though old Henslow and his wife are

  still here, I'm fairly certain I'm going to have to let

  them go by the end of the year too.

  "You know what?" Debney seemed to find

  some strength from somewhere. "Who am I

  protecting? Myself? What a joke. There's nothing

  to protect. Maybe if they killed me it'd be a bloody

  relief. I'll even do you a favor—consider it one for

  the road before we part. There's an invitation

  around here somewhere for a house party this

  weekend at Lord Ulbricht's country home. The

  bloody SOG are throwing some kind of party for

  young disaffected lordlings like me. I dismissed it,

  for I'm not an idiot—it's a recruiting drive if ever

  I've seen one, and I'd really rather not be caught

  between the ruling Council of Dukes and the SOG

  —but I'll give it to you. It's on the secretary there, I

  think."

  Byrnes examined him for a moment longer.

  They'd never truly been brothers and he despised

  most of what Debney was, but there was a sense of

  hopelessness in his half brother's face. This was