by Bec McMaster
children clutching their mothers' hands, and one
even trying to ride a bicycle in the park across the
street, guided by a man who had to be his father.
This section of town was a bloodbath waiting to
happen.
"All right," Ava concurred, closing the door
and peering out of the window. "As long as you're
certain you'll be fine alone?"
"Right as rain," Ingrid replied, and stepped
back onto the footpath. Fog clung to the alleyways
and the hair on the back of her neck rose, as if
something was watching her from within, but she
forced herself to wave to Ava as the carriage let
out a hiss of steam and then burbled into the traffic.
It turned the corner and Ingrid let out the
breath she'd been holding. Turning, she strode
along the street, breathing deeply.
What was a vampire doing in this area of
town?
Every person she passed only pushed her
nerves right to the edge, as she couldn't resist
glancing at their faces. A fat banker there, hurrying
home to his wife and children perhaps.... What if
he got home and found nothing but blood? Or
nothing at all. After all, people were disappearing
and they still didn't know why.
At least this was a bloody lead.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Ingrid
looked up. Black clouds hovered on the horizon,
but she still had some time before it rained.
A young governess looked both ways at the
edge of the pavement, her hands clasped around
her two charges' hands. Ingrid couldn't stop herself
from taking the woman by the arm.
Startled eyes flew to hers.
"Take them home," Ingrid said curtly, trying
not to frighten the young governess too much. "I'm
working with the Nighthawks, and I'd highly
recommend that you keep your charges inside
today."
The young woman blanched, and Ingrid
smelled panic. But the girl swept up the children
and hurried them away. At least that might be two
that she saved.
Children... everywhere. Ingrid's gaze locked
on the grassy park across the street, her ears
ringing with their laughter and screeches of joy.
Indecision warred in her breast. Should she send
them home? Or follow the creature to try and stop
whatever it was up to?
Ingrid bit her lip, then started to run after the
scent trail. There were simply too many people
out, and if she paused here, then the vampire might
start its killing spree before she got to it.
She was the only one who might be able to
stop it.
Suddenly she realized where she was.
Familiar streets that she'd only traveled herself a
day or so ago. She began looking around, her steps
slowing as the scent trail crossed itself. It had
some sort of interest in this area. Where the hell
was she? Why did she recognize—
That was when she knew.
"No," she whispered, "No, no, no." As she
scrambled around the corner, she caught hold of the
gaslight and stared up at the building across the
street. Miss Appleby's Home for the Elderly.
Not coincidence. Not merely a chase. It had
come here for a purpose.
Screams lit through the building. Ingrid was
running before she'd thought about it. Byrnes had
made her promise not to confront the vampire by
herself, but this was no time to worry about
breaking that promise.
Not when his mother was in that building.
Slamming through the front door, she saw the
blood painted against the walls, one forlorn
handprint splayed in wet vermillion before it slid
in a splash toward the floor. A body lay there,
throat torn out and eyes wide in horror.
Lightning
flickered
in
the
distance,
highlighting the darkened entrance. Ingrid leapt
over the body, seeing others in the halls, through
the kitchen door.... Above her, noise thumped, and
someone cried out in agony.
Upstairs. The bloody vampire was upstairs.
Moving quickly up the stairs, she caught its
scent—that sickly sweet rot. This one was not as
far advanced as the Ulbricht vampire had been. It
had only just begun to stink of rot, not dripping in it
like the house party vampire. That didn't mean
anything. She had nothing to compare it to, as the
Ulbricht vampire was the first she'd ever
encountered. Who knew whether it was at the full
peak of its speed and abilities, or whether it was
only beginning to find its strength? Vampires
weren't precisely a studied phenomenon. They
were rare, and the usual way to deal with them
was to exterminate them.
Following the muffled thuds and thumps,
Ingrid took stealthy steps forward, one foot placed
carefully in front of the other, both of her knives in
hand and her heart thundering in her throat.
Right into mayhem. The creature was sitting at
the end of the hall, glutting itself on a body. Others
lay scattered and torn to ragged pieces. Ingrid
froze, realizing it hadn't seen her. Its face was
buried in the ravaged throat of what had once been
a servant here, judging by the apron. Mrs. Byrnes's
door was cracked open just across the hallway,
faded sobs coming from within. Alive then.
Perhaps it had focused on the maidservant in its
grip, forgetting the other potential victims in here.
Sometimes they did that, she'd heard.
She slid an inch toward Mrs. Byrnes's room.
Another inch gained, her heart pounding like
it was fit to erupt through the cage of her ribs. How
the hell the creature couldn't hear it was beyond
her. One more step....
The vampire froze.
Ingrid echoed it.
Sniffing, the pallid face lifted like a dog's.
Filmy glaze covered its eyeballs, turning them an
eerie calcium blue. Right. It was blind. But it
would smell her now, and its blindness would
barely slow it down. She had to remember that.
A fierce, fiery cold began to creep through her
veins, along with the faint tremble that preceded a
fit of berserk rage. In the rage, a verwulfen man or
woman was almost impossible to cut down. They
barely felt pain or fear, or knew the cost of
consequences. Nothing but brutal mindlessness and
strength.
The unfortunate thing was that she was
already quite afraid, and what she really needed to
be was angry.
"Easy," she whispered, stepping closer to the
door. "Easy there, lad."
Movement
flexed
in
the
vampire's
hindquarters.
Ingrid twisted, driving the knife up as it
launched toward her. Claws raked the hard
carapace of her body armor, cutting through it like
through her abdomen. Oh shit. Ingrid forced herself
to complete the blow she'd planned, her knife
driving into the creature's eye, even as its teeth
clamped down upon her shoulder. She had it by the
throat with her other hand, but there was something
there. A collar? Electricity zapped through her and
she jerked her hand back.
A high-pitched roar of rage ripped from its
throat. Ingrid punched it in the chest, earning a few
precious inches. Rage burned in her blood, her
entire body going ice-hot as she threw it away
from her. Then she was through the door into Mrs.
Byrnes's room, slamming it shut—
A weight hammered at the door, almost
flinging her across the room. Turning, she set her
back into it, knowing that this was the only barrier
that might, just might, keep her alive. Byrnes's
mother was huddled in the corner, her bare feet
drawn up beneath her white night-robe. She stared
at Ingrid with a childish expression of fear on her
face, rocking slightly before burying her face in her
hands. No help there.
Blood. Blood everywhere. On her shirt, on
her hands, on her.... She saw the gaping mess of her
abdomen, and instantly her body went cold. Shite.
Her mind refused to deal with it, but the sight of
the mess cost her the fury she'd been building. The
berserkergang slid from her like a shroud, and
Ingrid gasped as all of the pain came rushing back
in.
Not now. Another blow almost broke the door
in two.
"Help!" she screamed.
Claws scraped at the wood, slicing thick
gouges of timber off it, she imagined. Blood. Pain.
Shocking pain. Ingrid's vision blurred. She couldn't
breathe. Couldn't move—
The door rocked one more time. Her legs
were about to give out. Then whistles broke out,
high-pitched and stabbing through her ears.
Nighthawks. She'd never been so glad to hear
Nighthawks’ whistles in her life. A fluting trill of
notes sounded in response. Claws padded away
from the door.
"Good boy," someone murmured, and a
metallic clip snapped shut.
Ingrid slid to the floor, as footsteps vanished
into the depths of the house. That awful clicking
screech of claws on the floorboards echoed it.
Her abdomen was a hot, flaming mess of pain.
God, what had it done to her? Tingles of heated
numbness burned in her midsection, a sure sign that
the loupe virus was hard at work.
But at least the bloody vampire was gone.
STATIC CRACKLED in Byrnes's ear. Cursing
under his breath, he stepped into the nearest alley
and pressed a finger to the button on his
communicator. He'd almost forgotten he was
wearing it as he tried to track Ingrid, who'd asked
for him, according to Ava. "Not now, Garrett."
"I've got an emergency at Clerkenwell. You're
the closest Nighthawk—"
"Garrett, I'm busy." Ingrid wouldn’t have
wanted him if she didn’t think she needed him, not
after last night.
"Byrnes, it's a slaughter in there." Garrett's
voice was on edge, even through the tinny speaker.
"Sounds like your case."
Byrnes paused. "A slaughter?"
"One of the nurses escaped and bolted for the
nearest Nighthawks garrison. They sent in a
relieving crew, but nobody's answering. Craigmore
went to scope the place out, and he says there are
bodies everywhere. He hasn't been inside yet. Can
see something moving in there, but he's waiting for
reinforcements—"
"Where?" That cold feeling seeping through
his veins unnerved him. No. Garrett had said
Clerkenwell. That didn't mean anything. The
borough was large. And there was no guarantee
that this slaughter had anything to do with the
vampire they were hunting.
"Miss Appleby's Home for the Elderly. It's on
—"
"Grant Street," Byrnes said hollowly, his ears
ringing as though all of the blood had drained from
his extremities. His mother. "I'm on it. Get me
reinforcements as soon as possible."
"IS ANYONE ALIVE IN THERE?" Byrnes
demanded, frantically searching each window as
he stepped out of the shadows behind Craigmore, a
Nighthawk he'd worked with in the past. Mother.
No. Not this way. After the life she'd led, she didn't
deserve to die this way.
"I don't know, sir. I haven't seen anyone
moving in the last five minutes. Earlier, yes, but..."
"Did—?" A hint of scent wafted past his nose,
cutting off his next line of questioning. A scent he
knew, musky and all woman. Nostrils flaring,
Byrnes strode toward the building, a new fear
rising in his heart. The scent was stronger here,
near the door.
"Ingrid," he whispered, and everything in him
went cold. What the bloody hell was she doing
here? A new fear rose to choke his throat, because
if Ingrid was here then she wouldn't hesitate to
enter, not when she knew his mother meant so much
to him.
Argument or no argument, he felt the darkness
rise, the predator inside him just as frantic as he
was. Get to her. Protect her, it insisted, locking
bloodthirsty claws around him. The color in his
vision vanished and blood pounded through his
temples.
This case had already proven that neither of
them was invulnerable when it came to vampires.
Jesus.
"Sir, what are we going to do?" Craigmore
sounded like a frightened little child behind him.
"Stay here," Byrnes replied, clamping down
on the hot surge of emotion that threatened to choke
him. "Guard the perimeter and wait for
reinforcements. I'm going in."
TWENTY
BLOOD HERE. Blood there. The Home was a
slaughterhouse.
Jesus Christ. Byrnes's mouth pooled with
saliva, his nostrils flaring as he stepped inside.
The hunger surged, sickening him. The men and
women here were familiar. Not prey. It was the
blood, overwhelming his senses and igniting the
predator inside him.
He didn't force it down, however. He needed
the predator. That was the only way he could
imagine coming up against a vampire alone and
surviving.
Ingrid, he whispered to himself, trying to
refocus it. Ingrid needs us.
Above him, something clattered.
Byrnes froze, his gaze rolling toward the
ceiling. Nothing moved. Only his heart, threatening
to pound its way out of his chest.
More sound. A thud. Byrnes started for the
stairs. Both pistols were in his hands. A faint,
mocking flute sounded somewhere above, a sound
that took him back to Ulbricht's immense gardens.
"Ingrid!" he called, reachin
g the top of the
stairs. "Ingrid, where are you?"
Sound echoed behind him, and he spun,
pistols rising instantly, only to see a startled cat
flee past him. Byrnes let out the breath he'd been
holding and eased both fingers off the triggers.
"Byrnes?" came a low, feminine cry.
Oh, thank God. She was still alive, and in his
mother's room.
He strode toward it, body alert for the faintest
shifts of breeze and shadows. The door looked like
it had faced one of those hedge trimmers that were
all the rage at the moment. Thick gouges marked its
heavy surface and curls of timber lay abandoned
on the floor beneath it.
"Ingrid?" he called, sheathing one of the
pistols at his belt. "Is my mother there?"
"She's here."
Byrnes paused. Ingrid was breathing hard and
something about her tone sounded strained. A faint
note of panic crept down his spine. "Are you all
right?"
"A scratch," she croaked. "I'll heal."
Something about that didn't sit right with him.
"Where's the vampire?"
"Was here. A minute ago. Left with... the
woman."
"What woman?" he demanded.
"The
pipe-playing
woman.
Ulbricht's
mistress, I think."
Her again. Byrnes looked around, but the
house had an abandoned air. "Craigmore," he said,
putting a hand to his ear to activate the
communication device. "It's clear, I believe. Bring
in the medics if they've arrived."
Holstering his second pistol, he tried to open
the door, but there was something in front of it.
Giving it a nudge revealed a long lean leg, clad in
Ingrid's dark trousers. The second the door cracked
open, the wash of blood stung his senses.
"Jesus Christ." There was blood seeping
down her trousers. Byrnes pushed harder against
the door, his breath catching. How bad was the
wound? That was a lot of blood. "Can you move?
Let me in, damn it. That's not a bloody scratch!"
Ingrid dragged her legs up to her body, then
tried to move aside. And failed.
Shit. She was hurt. Badly.
Byrnes nudged the door open just enough to
slip through. His mother rocked in the corner, but
there was no blood on her, and though she looked
terrified, she wasn't wounded. Ingrid was. It was a
simple matter to prioritize. Simple to—
That was when he saw the damage.
Time seemed to freeze as his focus narrowed
down to her. "Let me see. Ingrid, let me have a
look."
Ingrid's hands were pressed against her