Mission_Improper

by Bec McMaster

  I feel, the thoughts I have! You don't understand

  what it's like!" She took a step away from him, for

  his cologne was beginning to distract her again.

  "What matters is controlling these urges when they

  arise. And not allowing them to overrule the

  senses."

  Kincaid’s brows slowly drew together. "You

  didn't just want my blood."

  It wasn't what she'd expected him to say.

  "Pardon?"

  "You said it was because I unlaced your gown

  and was touching you." One eyebrow went up. "So

  just what was going through your mind when you

  started looking at me like you wanted to strip me

  naked and eat me all up, princess?"

  "I most certainly was not looking at you like

  that!"

  He took a step toward her, and she took one

  back. They faced off, and a trace of heat crept into

  her cheeks.

  "It's just... animal passions. That's all the

  craving is. Sir Richard Doyle presented a

  scientific treatise on the subject, about how blue

  bloods call it their 'darker half,' or the 'darkness'

  inside them, but...." He was stepping closer. "But

  it's just the primal side of one's nature, drawn to

  the fore... just.... What are you doing?"

  "All them big words sound pretty, luv,"—he

  smiled—"but let's call it what it is. You feel the

  same itch as I do, as any man or woman does."

  Reaching out, he caught both lapels of the coat

  she wore around her shoulders and tugged her a

  little closer to him.

  "Now," he purred. "Look at that." Another tug

  jerked her against the wall of his chest, and then

  her hands were pressing there, and she couldn't

  stop herself from flexing them, and good God he

  was like warm steel, and—

  "You're so firm," her mouth blurted, without

  any direct interference from her brain.

  She made a sound, deep in her throat, as he

  took one of her hands and started dragging it down

  his chest, lower....

  "It's even harder down here," Kincaid

  whispered, his gaze dipping toward his belt as if to

  point out the obvious.

  I'll just bet it is. After all, as delightfully

  naive as everyone thought her, she was well aware

  of what had been going on behind that sheet. And

  of what, precisely, Kincaid referred to.

  The thing that surprised her, however, was

  how tempting it was to let him keep dragging her

  hand lower.

  He wasn't Byrnes. Indeed, she wasn't certain

  that she even liked him. But Kincaid was warm,

  and his body deliciously firm beneath her touch,

  and she was a scientist, after all.... Curiosity began

  to itch. And other areas of her body.

  What would it be like, just once, to set aside

  all of that cursed thinking that constantly

  overwhelmed her and just feel?

  Kincaid's pull on her wrist softened as her

  fingertips grazed his belt buckle. As Ava glanced

  up beneath her lashes, she saw the smile die on his

  mouth. The moment dragged out as he looked at her

  —looked through her—as though seeing every

  naughty little thought that was scampering through

  her mind.

  "Bloody hell. You were thinking about it." He

  sounded almost as surprised as she felt, and not at

  all as cocky as normal.

  Ava tipped her chin up as she took a step

  away from him. "I was not. And... and I am not

  giving your coat back! Not until tomorrow."

  Then she fled.

  THIRTEEN

  THE MAN THAT answered to the name of Ghost

  lashed out with economical grace, the staff a

  whirling blur in his hands.

  The lad facing him met the first attack with his

  own staff, then the second glanced off a hastily

  thrown defense. Ghost ducked beneath a blow and

  retorted with a sharp swing of his staff that swept

  Henrik's feet out from under him. As soon as the

  fellow hit the mats, Ghost drove the butt of the staff

  into Henrik's throat and held it there, not quite hard

  enough to crush the cartilage.

  "You still expect me to strike at your upper

  body," Ghost told him. "Watch my hips and

  shoulders to see where the next move will come

  from."

  Henrik gurgled and frantically caught the staff

  in both hands to alleviate the pressure.

  "It makes you weak and susceptible to a strike

  at your feet or legs—" A disturbance at the door

  caught his attention. Ghost glanced up from beneath

  pale lashes and saw the man standing just inside

  his training room. He relented and stepped back,

  swinging the staff up under his arm as Henrik

  gasped for breath and touched the indentation in his

  throat. "Continue practicing with the others. You

  have a week to improve this flaw. The next time it

  happens in a spar, I'll kill you. Now leave us,"

  Ghost commanded, and the pale youth scrambled to

  his feet and nodded respectfully to the man at the

  door as he hurried out.

  "He's coming along," Obsidian murmured,

  tugging his gloves from his fingers one by one as

  the door eased shut. His silvery hair was tied back

  in a neat queue.

  "They're weaker than we are." Ghost placed

  the staff in the wooden grooves where it usually

  lay, then swiped his shirt off the nearest chair and

  swung it around his neck, holding on to the ends.

  There was no sweat on his skin, but his muscles

  felt nice and loose. Henrik had at least taken the

  edge off him.

  "That's to be expected," Obsidian noted. "We

  were the first, and without Dr. Cremorne to

  recreate the transformative elixir, we can only

  guess at the precise measurements required for it.

  They're still stronger and faster than a blue blood

  and that's what we truly require."

  Ghost waved the conversation away. It wasn't

  important. The recruits were merely cannon

  fodder. He, Obsidian, and the other original four

  were the important ones. Sliding apart the pair of

  doors that led to his study, he strode directly for

  the blud-wein decanter in the corner and poured

  two glasses of it, though truly it was more blood

  than wine these days. "I didn't expect to see you

  until Monday." His tone held no disapproval, but

  Obsidian circled the desk warily and tugged a

  folder from under his arm.

  "News."

  Ghost offered him one of the glasses, and they

  chinked them together, then each took a sip. "Good

  news?"

  "Our enemy is moving faster than we

  expected. Malloryn suspects something," Obsidian

  replied, taking a seat. "He's put together a special

  group, though I only caught wind of it yesterday.

  His Grace is remarkably difficult to follow for a

  duke. One would think he'd had dhampir training."

  "We were warned that he wasn't what he

  seemed." Interesting, however, as Obsidia
n was

  one of Ghost's best agents, and if he was having

  trouble tracking Malloryn, then that meant

  something. Ghost sank into his own seat and

  flipped open the folder. There were sepia

  photographs inside. The top one displayed a man

  and a woman arguing in the street. The woman was

  tall and somehow vibrant, and the fellow had the

  look of a blue blood about him. A dangerous one.

  "Do we know them?"

  "Part of Malloryn's taskforce. He's a

  Nighthawk," Obsidian replied. "Caleb Byrnes.

  She's verwulfen."

  Ghost's eyes met Obsidian's, but he was

  curious more than anything else. "That shouldn't be

  a problem."

  "They took out one of Zero's vampires at Lord

  Ulbricht's," Obsidian replied, and Ghost took a

  closer look. "Don't underestimate them."

  "How?"

  "Don't know. I wasn't there. But I saw the

  creature's body. Head shot with one of those

  exploding bullets that certain members of the

  population seem to be employing these days."

  "Maybe someone got lucky." Ghost dragged

  the folder closer to him. That was interesting;

  certainly more interesting than biding his time and

  training the latest batch of inept recruits. "How

  many of them did the vampire kill? And what were

  they doing at Ulbricht's?" How had Malloryn's

  agents gotten a handle on that little plot so swiftly?

  "No kills, I believe. The intruders escaped

  whole. As for why they were at Ulbricht's

  gathering, I don't know."

  "Yet," Ghost said, and it wasn't a question.

  "Yet." Obsidian frowned. "I know we were

  told to wait, but I don't see why we shouldn't

  simply kill Malloryn now. The Master might want

  to drag this out, but I'd much rather tie up loose

  ends. Malloryn already proves that he's no fool.

  The more chances we give him to ferret out what

  we're up to, the more chances he has to destroy this

  scheme. And if he already knows about the Sons of

  Gilead plot, then he's halfway there."

  Ghost flipped through to the next sepia-toned

  photograph. "Dying is easy. The Master has a score

  to settle with Malloryn. He wants him to see the

  destruction first, to watch as his precious new

  empire is crushed beneath our heel. No, Malloryn

  shall be the last one to die. And the SOG are little

  more than one head of the snake. Losing a pack of

  puppets costs us little. They don't even know who's

  really pulling their strings, and they're only part of

  phase one. Who is this?" he asked, pointing to a

  heavyset man with a mech arm who was striding

  down the stairs of a house and settling his hat in

  place.

  "A mech." Obsidian immediately dismissed

  him. "The others don't seem to like him very much,

  and he's easily killed. The younger fellow at his

  side is also unknown. A blue blood by the look of

  him."

  Ghost glanced at the lad's colorless hair, pale

  eyes, and snow-white skin. "Clearly. Also clearly

  not someone from the Echelon." No, the young man

  had the look of a survivor about him from the way

  he watched the streets. Fancy clothes couldn't hide

  that.

  "I'll keep an eye on them and try and figure

  out who they are."

  Another photograph, this time of a pretty

  young woman with blonde curls and small half-

  moon glasses.

  "Ava McLaren. She's a Nighthawk too,"

  Obsidian explained.

  "Then it’s possible Malloryn is utilizing the

  Nighthawks for this?" That wouldn't bother him,

  though it gave his enemy more manpower than

  expected.

  "Possibly, though it's not common knowledge,

  even among them. I broke into the Nighthawks

  Guild last night to confirm. Both Byrnes and

  McLaren are on a leave of absence. McLaren's a

  scientist, little more."

  "That was a risky move."

  "Nobody even saw me. You'd think for a

  building full of blue bloods they'd have some idea

  of when they were compromised. The problem is,

  they've accounted for both human and blue blood.

  They had no idea how to counter for something like

  us." Obsidian glanced away, tapping his fingers on

  the chair.

  Ghost's eyes narrowed in on that betraying

  movement. His best agent was uneasy, an anomaly

  that he'd rarely seen in Obsidian. Ghost slowly

  turned over the last photo, and understood why.

  Hollis Tremayne peered out of the window of

  the house. She was no longer blonde, and it took a

  moment to recognize her, but Ghost was

  immediately drawn back into the past, into Russia.

  He traced the glossy black curls and her pretty

  heart-shaped face before closing the folder. "So

  Hollis survived. What happened? You don't usually

  miss."

  "I wasn't aware that I had, until yesterday,"

  Obsidian replied in a chilly voice. "The last time I

  saw her I shot her point-blank in the chest and she

  fell into an icy river. She was human and she

  shouldn't have survived. There was no trace of the

  body, but I was badly burned, thanks to her. I

  barely managed to escape, let alone search for

  her."

  "Is this going to be a problem?" he asked,

  sitting back in his chair. That entire mess in Russia

  had been catastrophic, and he'd nearly lost his best

  agent. Obsidian wasn't the kind of killer who had a

  weakness, but Russia had revealed it, and it owned

  a soft luscious mouth and a lying tongue.

  "She calls herself Gemma now." Obsidian

  met his eyes. Not a muscle moved in his

  expression. "And no, it won't be a problem. It

  wasn't difficult to pull the trigger last time, but

  now.... When it comes time to finally set the next

  phase into action... she's mine, do you understand?"

  "Understood."

  Obsidian flowed to his feet. "I'll continue to

  keep an eye on the house, and on Malloryn.

  Permission to leave?"

  "Permission granted." Ghost kept his thoughts

  to himself as Obsidian took his leave. Leaning

  over to the communicator in his desk, he pressed

  the buzzer that would summon Henrik.

  It only took a minute. Henrik appeared, barely

  out of breath, his moonlight-blond hair wet from a

  bath.

  "Yes, sir?" Henrik snapped to attention.

  Ghost opened the folder again, and slid Hollis

  Tremayne’s—or

  Gemma

  Townsend's—photo

  across the desk. "You've been granted a reprieve

  from training," he said. "I have a task for you. Find

  this woman. And don't come back until you've

  killed her."

  FOURTEEN

  INGRID WOKE UP with one hell of a headache.

  Grumbling to herself, she swiftly dressed and then

  made her way downstairs in the house at Baker

  Street. Malloryn had set aside rooms for all of

  them i
f they required, but this was the first time

  she'd actually stayed there.

  "Breakfast, miss?" Herbert asked, appearing

  out of nowhere.

  Ingrid's stomach growled. "If you find me

  breakfast, I promise I'll marry you. Herbert."

  The tall, possibly-a-blue-blood smiled back

  at her. He was mostly invisible, but always in the

  background somewhere, she realized. “Not

  necessary, Miss Miller. But I’ll keep it in mind.”

  In the dining room Gemma rested her head in

  her hands. Her usually neat hairstyle was missing,

  replaced by a messy chignon. "The next time I

  mention a night of debauchery," she pointed out,

  "remind me of this moment."

  "You did seem to be having a rather lively

  discussion with Charlie when I left. You two still

  haven't decided what we're going to call

  ourselves?"

  "A Company of Crackpots," Gemma replied

  with aplomb. "That's my vote this morning."

  "Good morning," Ava said brightly, slipping

  into the seat opposite Ingrid and thanking Herbert

  as he brought her a tray of toast and warmed

  marmalade. "What are the plans for today, ladies?"

  "Dying," Gemma groaned.

  "Eating my way through this entire breakfast,"

  Ingrid replied, reaching for the plate of fried

  beefsteak. "If anyone else wants some, I'd advise

  you take it now."

  "Oh." Ava poured herself a cup of tea,

  blinking at them. "Both of you look half-dead. I've

  seen more color in the corpses on my examination

  table. You do realize what your livers probably

  look like this morning?"

  Gemma paled. "Please. No mention of bodily

  organs. At least not until lunch."

  "Well, look at the team," called a slightly

  amused voice as the baroness strode into the room,

  her red skirts swishing. "Busy night, was it?"

  All three of them sat up a little straighter.

  The baroness arched a brow at Gemma as she

  handed the woman a folder. "Malloryn's not going

  to like it."

  "Well, Malloryn needs to locate a sense of

  humor," Gemma retorted, sipping her morning cup

  of blood. "I'd suggest he look inside the part he sits

  upon, to start with."

  The baroness's lips twitched. "I'll pass that

  along to him when he arrives."

  "You are prime evil, Isabella," Gemma shot

  back fondly. "No wonder the two of you get along

  so smashingly."

  The

  baroness's

  sable

  eyebrow

  lifted.

  "Someone has to keep you rabble in line."