Mission_Improper

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Mission_Improper Page 9

by Bec McMaster

bloodied in a ring, where her sole aim was simply

  to survive. Words couldn't hurt her anymore.

  Indeed, ever since Will Carver's law had

  been announced just over three years ago and she'd

  been allowed onto the streets of London as a free

  woman, she'd found such a prospect the more

  frightening situation. Leaving the dark shadows of

  Undertown—where she, Rosa, Jack, and the rest of

  the humanists had once discovered sanctuary—

  made her feel uncomfortably out of place. She was

  still getting used to daylight, open spaces, and

  blending in to a crowd, as though there was nothing

  out of the ordinary about her. Freedom was

  terrifying in a way that oppression never had been.

  But she'd be damned if she'd admit that.

  Byrnes looked away, tapping his fingers on

  the edge of the chair. "I'm not going to be difficult

  to work with tonight," he said suddenly, and then

  their eyes met. "This is not the time nor the place

  for the two of us to be clashing. Ulbricht and the

  Echelon can be dangerous, and they've no liking

  for your kind or what you represent for them."

  She breathed out a laugh. "So it's a truce

  then?"

  "A truce."

  Ingrid's smile faded. "You must be worried

  about me."

  His look said it all, really. Ingrid downed

  another finger of brandy. "There's a possibility that

  they won't even know what I am. As soon as we

  land, I intend to use the occipital lenses that hide

  the bronze in my eyes."

  "And your scent?"

  "A liberal dousing of perfume," she replied.

  "Blue bloods like you have exquisite sense of

  smell, but in my experience the Echelon lords are

  too used to wearing colognes and perfumes. It

  dulls their senses."

  "Like your letter," he murmured, standing and

  heading for the small travelling case he'd brought.

  "The one you left on my pillow. I could barely

  smell you at all. Here," he said, opening the case.

  "We might as well finish the remaining

  preparations, if you're going to start disguising

  yourself."

  She watched him gather up a handful of

  devices. "It's quite convenient having the

  Nighthawks at your beck and call, isn't it? Did you

  raid their equipment store on your way out?"

  "I'm testing some new experiments for Fitz,"

  he corrected, "the guild's weapons master."

  "Does Fitz know this?"

  That earned her a rare smile. "Hold still. And

  wear this at all times," Byrnes told her, brushing

  the honey-brown curls on the left side of her head

  behind her ear. Ingrid's pulse hammered as he

  gently eased the small brass device inside her ear

  and fitted it carefully. Byrnes looked up from

  beneath thick lashes, as if he'd noticed. That touch

  gentled, tracing the delicate curve of her ear. Then

  his gaze dipped, the back of his fingers twisting to

  brush against the delicate skin of her throat. Right

  over the flutter of her pulse.

  "Byrnes," she breathed, though it was a token

  protest.

  Hunger flooded through his eyes, turning them

  darker, until only blackness remained. Byrnes

  leaned closer, his breath buffeting her jaw, and—

  Ingrid caught his wrist, breathing hard. She

  knew what he was thinking, what he'd intended.

  And so did he, judging by the sharp realization in

  his eyes as he blinked. The darkness fled, leaving

  only the alpine clearness of his blue irises, but it

  unnerved her. Blue bloods only reacted like that

  when their hunger was in ascendancy. "You haven't

  earned your kiss yet."

  "A kiss, is it?" His voice roughened. "This is

  a communicator. You'll be able to hear me, and I'll

  hear what is being said around you too. Once the

  ball's in full swing, I'm going to explore the

  grounds a little and see if I can find anything

  incriminating in Lord Ulbricht's study."

  "Can I join you in rifling his study?"

  "I'll think about it." Easing out of his squat,

  the creases of his trousers falling into place,

  Byrnes turned away, toying with the various items

  displayed on the table in front of him. Taking the

  time to compose himself, she thought, remembering

  that dark glint in his eyes.

  The hunger. She was still frozen, not quite

  certain what had just happened. Something unusual,

  judging by the stiffness of his shoulders.

  Once upon a time, she'd despised all blue

  bloods, considering them nothing but monsters;

  their inner predator hidden by a sleek exterior that

  was little more than a facade. Byrnes himself had

  helped dispel that myth a year ago, when they'd

  worked together. She'd expected a blue blood,

  driven by his desires for blood. What she'd gotten

  was a man who held himself so chillingly

  composed that the only predator she'd seen within

  him had been the one who hungered to capture the

  Vampire of Drury Lane. His needs were sharply

  focused; his thoughts trained solely on the mission.

  If anything, she'd found his composure so supreme

  that it was almost insulting.

  Except for the last couple of days, when the

  bet had been in place, and for the first time she'd

  seen a man with hunger in his eyes, a man who

  burned with it.

  But not for blood. Never for blood.

  "Screamer," he said, turning and handing her a

  tube-shaped

  device.

  Evidently

  they

  were

  pretending nothing had ever happened, which was

  fine with her. "You press this button, and the

  device emits a high-pitched noise that will drive a

  blue blood to his—"

  "Jack created these," she told him, taking the

  device and slipping it down her bodice as she

  stood, before adjusting the snug fit. The gown was

  one she'd used in the past for undercover work,

  though times had been straitened then, and she'd

  evidently gained weight since. "This is not my first

  undercover role, Byrnes."

  He held up a slender dart. “Then you know

  what these do?”

  “Hemlock dart, meant to paralyse a blue

  blood,” she replied promptly.

  He put the dart down. “ Fine. Just play it

  safe."

  With her heeled slippers on, she was almost

  on a level with his eyes. Reaching out, Ingrid

  smoothed her hands down over his lapels. "I

  cannot quite figure out if you're worried about me,

  or worried that I'll betray the game before we have

  it figured out." Though her voice sounded light, she

  felt that question curl through her. Did he actually

  care more than he seemed to?

  Byrnes's

  hands

  captured

  her

  wrists.

  Something flickered in his gaze—consternation?

  "If we get caught, then we get out as swiftly as we

/>   can. It would be an inconvenience, but... not

  unmanageable."

  "You are worried about me," she blurted.

  "The last time I worked with a partner, I

  almost got her killed," he admitted with a scowl.

  Every word sounded as though she were

  threatening to pull teeth. Clearly he loathed

  admitting his concern. "I don't work well with

  others. I never have, and I know that I frustrated

  you last night when I went behind your back with

  Debney, but... working in a team has never been

  one of my strengths. Sometimes I forget to

  cooperate, and when I find a clue my first instinct

  is to chase it, not to reconnoiter and plan our next

  step. It wasn't personal, Ingrid." Grudgingly, he

  added, "If I were going to work with someone, you

  seem as good as any of the others I've been

  partnered with."

  Good heavens. That was practically a

  compliment. She didn't voice it, however, as

  Byrnes had clearly extended an olive branch

  toward her. Instead, she shrugged. "Apology

  accepted. I will warn you though, I do expect

  better next time."

  A sudden flash of smile made him shockingly

  handsome, then it was gone as he turned his

  attention back to her earpiece. Ingrid couldn't help

  feeling as though she'd been jolted by a Leyden jar,

  however.

  Byrnes was a complex man. "Who was she?"

  she asked, for his tone had softened at the mention

  of a “her.”

  "My Nighthawk friend, Perry." Byrnes let her

  wrists go. "As you can imagine, Garrett was quite

  put out with me."

  Perry... Well, that was all right. Ingrid had met

  the woman and decided that she liked her, thanks to

  a knife-throwing game when the pair of them had

  been into Rosa's sherry one night. Besides, Perry

  was quite happily married to the guild master of

  the Nighthawks. "It sounded as though you were

  quite put out with yourself."

  "Yes, well." He turned, the tails of his coat

  flaring. Pouring a glass of blud-wein from

  Debney's decanter, he drained it in one swallow,

  and Ingrid enjoyed watching the muscles in his

  throat work. "I care for Perry. She reminds me of

  myself, in some ways, and I always.... She always

  seemed invulnerable to me."

  "Until?"

  "The day she was not." Byrnes finally looked

  at her. "Don't get yourself killed. I still have a bet

  to win and a reward to claim."

  Ingrid's breath flushed from her lungs. For a

  moment, it had almost felt like something else

  lingered between them, but his words were a good

  reminder. Byrnes considered life a challenge. If he

  gave any indication that he cared for her, she

  would be a fool to believe it.

  "Don't worry. I wouldn't want to deprive you

  of such a challenge."

  SEVEN

  THE WELCOMING ball was a masquerade.

  "No mention of that on the invitation,"

  Debney huffed, as though personally affronted, as

  they waited in the receiving line.

  Dozens of gorgeously gowned ladies fluttered

  their fans, wearing an assortment of hawk masks,

  and butterflies, or even some masks with

  clockwork gears turning slowly over their faces.

  At the door, a footman held a platter of assorted

  masks for those guests unfortunate enough not to

  have one, and Ingrid swept up a pretty gold-and-

  blue concoction of feathers that matched her gown.

  Just as she lifted the mask to her face, the

  lordling in front of her tilted his head to the side,

  as though scenting something, and went deadly

  still.

  Though the occipital lenses she wore should

  have hidden her eyes, Ingrid swiftly tied the mask

  on as he moved off, nudging someone else, who

  turned to examine her with a cold eye. Both of

  them had pale silvery-blond hair, as though they

  were blue bloods well into the Fade. Once upon a

  time, the Fade had led to a blue blood developing

  into a vampire, and they'd been executed when

  their craving virus levels grew too high, but there

  was some sort of transmutation machine now that

  helped dilute the craving virus levels in a blue

  blood's blood.

  No blue blood had to fear the Fade anymore.

  So why hadn't they used it?

  "This way, my dear," Debney said, tucking her

  hand firmly in his. He stared the pair of lords

  down, as though daring them to say something to

  her.

  "You know," she murmured, glancing back

  over her shoulder curiously, "I'm not quite certain

  why Byrnes dislikes you so. You are quite a

  charming fellow when you want to be, Debney."

  The pair of blue bloods had vanished.

  "It's a long story, and I don't take it personally,

  as Caleb dislikes most people." Those perceptive

  eyes turned her way. Debney looked like fluff, but

  was proving to own a shrewd mind behind those

  insipid blue eyes. "Except, it seems, for some."

  "I don't know what you mean." Fanning

  herself, Ingrid looked away.

  "He seems quite taken with you, my dear, if

  one knows him well enough to know what he's

  looking for."

  A brief spurt of something—hope—flared in

  her chest, but she swiftly repressed it. That was

  foolishness of the worst sort. "I'm a challenge to

  him."

  "Mmm," Debney murmured, but he said

  nothing more.

  They swept into the ballroom, and she

  couldn't stop herself from lifting her eyes to the

  vaulted ceilings, dripping in gold, and the decadent

  chandeliers. She'd never seen the like. Dozens of

  servant drones roamed the ballroom with steam

  hissing from their exhaust vents. More than one

  young lady's silk dress was ruined in the wake of

  the steam, and the room was intolerably hot and

  humid, considering it was October. Ingrid slipped

  a glass of chilled champagne from the serving

  platter on top of one of the drones’ heads.

  "Ulbricht used to be a scion of the House of

  Morioch," Debney murmured, guiding her through

  the crowd. "Owned two of the London enclaves,

  and had exclusive shipping contracts with the

  prince consort. He's practically a new-age

  Croesus."

  "So he'd have disliked the fact that the

  revolution stripped his means of revenue so

  dramatically." Good heavens, there were even

  girls dressed in watered white silk that barely

  covered them. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the

  matching pearl chokers about their throats,

  complete with a small metal ring at the front. They

  were very nearly reminiscent of the slave collars

  that the Echelon used to put on their blood-slaves.

  "Isn't that illegal now?"

  Debney knew exactly what she was referring

  to. "Not quite, which basically describes Ulbricht

  and his ilk. They push every law to the ver
y limit,

  though they never seem to take that step over the

  line, leaving the queen with very little recourse.

  Those girls are most likely paid to surrender to any

  who desire them for the night. No matter what is

  asked of them."

  Revulsion burned like acid in her throat. This

  was what she'd fought so hard to prevent during the

  revolution. It ached to see that the progress she

  saw everywhere in London was but a facade to

  these people.

  "Relax." Debney patted her hand, which she

  realized was clenched over his. He didn't quite

  wince.

  "Sorry."

  "Don't be." Behind the mask, his eyes seemed

  suddenly weary. "It's nothing that I didn't flaunt in

  my heyday." His gaze seemed to take in every girl,

  but there was no hunger in it. Only shame. "I never

  questioned it, as it was the way I was raised, but

  some of the stories you hear...." His voice

  lowered, almost to a whisper. "Some of the things

  that you saw."

  "Or did?"

  "Or did," he admitted softly, and to his credit,

  did not try to explain away his actions. "You said

  that you weren't quite sure why Caleb dislikes me."

  This time he did meet her gaze. "I know. When my

  father died, I... I found myself lost to freedom for a

  long time. I never thought of consequences. Not

  until recently."

  Ingrid frowned. "Freedom?"

  "My father was not a very nice man, and when

  you consider that I walked among those that

  surround us and thought them harmless, well... let

  us just leave it at that. There." Debney tipped his

  head toward something behind her. "There he is.

  Ulbricht."

  Applause and cheers tore through the room.

  Lord Ulbricht appeared at the top of the stairs,

  impeccable in black, with his pale hair pomaded

  within an inch of its life. The man wore a thin,

  well-pruned moustache, and faint lines shadowed

  his hawklike eyes as he smiled and greeted his

  guests with a wave.

  Ingrid watched him saunter down the

  staircase, shaking hands with one young lordling

  and then offering a smile to another. It was surreal,

  the way such evil wore a pleasant mask. "I'm going

  to stop this, Debney."

  For the first time, her mission—and

  Malloryn's—suddenly made sense to her. She'd

  fought so hard with the humanists to destroy the

  prince consort and see his queen in a position of

  power. The intervening years of peace and

  subsequent failed trips to Norway might have

  dulled her ambition, but this moment reignited her

 

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