You Only Love Twice (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 3)

by Bec McMaster

  It stole her breath.

  Obsidian turned his icy gaze upon the duke. "But you should know, there are people on my side I will not stand against or betray. And I don't take orders well."

  "Does it seem as if any of these damned fools take orders well?"

  "We listen when it suits us, Your Grace," Byrnes said.

  Malloryn ignored him. Standard procedure for dealing with Byrnes. "Come. I want to know everything you know. We need to prepare you for the council meeting."

  "Welcome to the Company of Rogues," Charlie said, slapping a hand on his back. "This is really going to upset the ranking."

  Obsidian shot him a dangerous look. "Touch me again and you’ll lose that hand."

  Charlie instinctively hauled it to his chest, his face paling.

  "I was jesting," Obsidian said, allowing the faintest of smiles to touch his mouth.

  He crossed to her side and offered her his arm, amusement warming his gray eyes.

  "Do you think he’s really kidding?" Charlie muttered, behind them.

  Gemma let out a breath of relief. Oh, he’d fit right in. Eventually.

  "According to Gemma, you're a sugarplum, Charlie," Obsidian called over his shoulder. "If I hurt you, Gemma's going to break my fingers. You're safe."

  "What?" Charlie sounded aggrieved. "Gemma!"

  "Your manhood's still intact," she said, rolling her eyes.

  "A sugarplum?" Kincaid snickered with malicious delight. "That's brilliant."

  "I wouldn't laugh too loudly," Obsidian said. "Unless you want me to repeat what she said about you?"

  Kincaid shut up rather abruptly.

  "That was somewhat wicked of you," she whispered, and then reached up to brush her lips against Obsidian's cheek. "Thank you."

  "For being wicked?"

  "For being mine," she replied, and turned her mouth to his to kiss him, right in front of everybody.

  "We call it the neural control implant," Obsidian said, staring defiantly back at the seven council members who watched him like hawks. "It was initially developed in Russia, and modified for Lord Balfour's purposes here."

  He stood just inside the brass ring set into the floor of the atrium, facing the dais. The atrium was perfectly rounded, columns circling the room. Light spilled through a stained glass window hanging over the dais, casting a luminescent sort of haze over the queen.

  A gown of yellow silk draped her small figure, the golden diadem of the realm upon her brow. Eyes the color of warm whiskey locked on him, and her smooth cheeks held no expression. Tension lingered in the way she gripped the arms of her throne, and when she glanced at the ruined remains of the door, he knew why.

  He'd barely caught a glimpse of her when Gemma tried to kill her. Merely a crowd of Coldrush Guards settling into place like a shield wall of blue blood bodies around her.

  But she'd remember.

  "It's a derivative of the device the Blood Court use to control their serfs in Russia. The Russians call it tsep' razuma—a chain of the mind—and it was created nearly twenty years ago following the Serf Rebellion. It keeps them docile and forces them to bow to the whims of their blue blood masters. There have been no uprisings since."

  The queen's eyelids grew heavy. "They cannot fight it?"

  "No."

  The entire Council exchanged a look. He recognized Jasper and Rosalind Lynch, the Duke and Duchess of Bleight; Sir Gideon Scott, the head of the humanist faction in London; Aramina Barrons, the Duchess of Casavian, and her consort, Leo Barrons; and Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel. Every single one of them looked ill at ease.

  Only Malloryn looked bored, but he'd heard this story several times over.

  A faint tinge of horror darkened the queen's eyes. "And it is still in use?"

  "The Blood Court is far less evolved than even the prince consort's," Malloryn murmured. "As horrifying as your husband's policies were, our humans were still somewhat protected. In Russia, they are livestock. There are no rules and one of the Blood may take as many lives as he wishes. I have heard of duchesses who fill their baths with blood to keep their skin youthful. Princes who refer to children as 'veal.’ When the rebellion was crushed, the Blood chose to make an example of the rebellion's leaders. One in twenty of them were flayed, and their tongues were removed. The rest were crucified. To prevent such a thing from occurring again, most of the Blood forced their serfs and servants to be implanted. Now they cannot even scream when they are bled." Malloryn tipped his head toward Obsidian. "Go on. Tell her about our version of the neural implant."

  "It was created by an English scientist named Henry Richter, who worked for Lord Balfour, and was inspired by the Russian version."

  The queen flinched when he said Balfour's name.

  "Balfour used it for nearly ten years before your own revolution, though it was an imperfect weapon. I believe you are aware of a recent case involving its use. There were rumors of an assassin named the Chameleon who plagued the Echelon and could not be caught. One of the reasons for his elusiveness was because the Chameleon's identity constantly changed. The scions of the Great Houses of the Echelon grew up watching their backs, so it was deemed too difficult to insert an assassin into their households. Instead, Balfour arranged for long-faithful servants or family to be kidnapped off the streets and implanted whilst under anesthesia. They were kept sedated until the procedure was completed, hypnotized, then returned to where they were taken minus their purses or jewelry to plant the seed this was merely a theft. Often they would awaken with no memory of the event, and only a small wound at the back of their skulls, easily explained away as a blow from a blunt object. They would return home and recover, and nobody would be any the wiser, as the neural implant is not activated until required. We called them drones."

  "Sleeper agents of the worst kind," Malloryn mused. "The poor bastards didn't even know themselves."

  "The Chameleon Protocol originally required a handler with a frequency box to 'flip the switch' so to speak. When the neural implant felt the right frequency vibrating nearby it would activate. Certain instructions were given to them under hypnosis, and the second the frequency blanked their minds they became mindless killing weapons. In some cases, they would not even remember having murdered their target. In others, the frequency destroyed their minds. Some resumed a vegetative state. It wasn't an entirely foolproof plan... until recently.

  "Dr. Richter came up with a secondary neural implant which could be initiated purely by stating a certain combination of words. The frequency transmitter is embedded in the neural implant itself, and no handler is required. One can walk past the subject, state the code words, and continue on their way. We used to use a certain passage of music as the code, but there was an incident where one of the drones attended the opera. It didn't end well."

  Malloryn looked up sharply. "Wagner's Die Walkure?"

  "When that man strangled the conductor and shot two members of the audience before turning the pistol on himself?" the Duchess of Bleight asked.

  "Yes." Ghost had been livid, and threatened to embed one of the neural implants in the good doctor if he ever heard the strains of the famous opera coming from the doctor's phonograph again.

  To this day, Dr. Richter turned pale whenever Silas hummed the opening strains to "Ride of the Valkyries," which was as often as he got the doctor alone.

  Silas would have gotten along well with Byrnes.

  "How does one know if they've been implanted?" the Duke of Bleight asked.

  "Unknown lapses in time, a 'blow' to the head or other unaccounted injury there, a sudden spate of nose bleeds.... The neural implant doesn't always work properly. Some people get a tic in their eyelid, or the muscle of their jaw. Some suffer brain hemorrhages. Indeed, Ghost's preferred victims are usually blue bloods, because the mark of the incision vanishes within an hour of the surgery, and the craving virus often heals any hemorrhages. They are also better assassins, and more difficult to kill."

  The entire council shifted. />
  "Are there any of these 'drones' within the Ivory Tower?" Sir Gideon Scott asked.

  "Two, as of my understanding. I gave their names to Malloryn this morning." He hesitated a second. "However, I was not involved in the Chameleon Protocol. It's Ghost's pet project, and I wouldn't be surprised to discover there are more sleeper agents than I'm aware of."

  "'Ow the 'ell do we find 'em?" This from Blade.

  "You can't," he replied. "The only way to be certain none of the guards or servants are affected is to shock them all, the way I did with Gemma. It shorts the electrics within the neural implant and renders it inert."

  "It could also kill some of the human servants," the queen whispered in a horrified voice.

  "How close do these handlers need to be to activate their drones?" Lynch asked.

  "A hundred yards usually. Dr. Richter's been experimenting with the range."

  "They wouldn't get close enough to activate someone within the tower." Lynch rubbed at his mouth. "The outer walls are at least two hundred yards away from the base."

  "Therefore, an agent with the right code words would need to be in the building, similar to the situation with Miss Townsend," the Duchess of Casavian mused. "An inside job."

  "Unless one keys the code to a certain phrase one expects to be uttered by a certain person," Obsidian countered.

  "Such as?"

  "And her Majesty, the Queen...." He raised his voice in an effective rendition of the page that had announced her.

  The queen's face paled.

  Questions poured forth in a sudden flurry as if he'd opened the floodgates, until his mouth grew dry from answering.

  No, there was no means to say who was the next intended target for the "Chameleon."

  No, he couldn't state where Lord Balfour was now, beyond Russia.

  Yes, he could lead Malloryn and a handful of guards upon the dhampir's secret base beneath Undertown.

  Yes, it was likely there would be retaliation for the botched assassination, as Ghost disliked failure.

  Malloryn finally broke the flood of questions, crossing to the middle of the floor to stand next to him. "I know we all have more questions, and I assure you I will extract their answers from Obsidian when I have a chance, but time is growing shorter. We know there is a new threat to the realm, but now we're aware of what it is and which direction it's coming from, we have no time to waste. The queen's safety is at risk every second she stays in the tower. The Coldrush Guards and the servants need to be tested before we can pronounce it safe for the queen to return. And I believe we've all heard enough to pass judgment upon Miss Townsend."

  Lynch nodded. "I believe Miss Townsend to be an unwitting tool in the hands of our enemy. All in favor, say aye."

  "Aye." Blade.

  "Aye." The Duchesses of Bleight and Casavian.

  "Aye." Leo Barrons.

  A long pause.

  Sir Gideon Scott glanced toward the queen. "Unwitting or not, she took down twelve Coldrush Guards and came within inches of assassinating the queen."

  Malloryn didn't bother looking at Scott, he merely turned his attention upon the queen—whom, he'd already told Obsidian—was the only one with the power to veto the Council's vote.

  A certain sort of look passed between the queen and her spymaster.

  "I need her," Malloryn said softly. "She's my best, and we're dealing with the most dangerous conspiracy I've ever had the displeasure of facing. I cannot afford to lose her."

  No response from the queen's expression. "You're not usually this sentimental, Malloryn."

  Obsidian stepped forward, drawing all eyes. "If Malloryn's argument doesn't sway you, then consider this: my cooperation depends entirely upon Miss Townsend's fate."

  "Your fate depends upon my goodwill," she retorted, "for you have worked against this country and its people, and your destiny balances on a knife's edge as it is. Do not threaten me—"

  "Alexa." A single word from the Duchess of Casavian, but the queen seemed to give it more consideration than any of the others.

  "They compromised my throne room."

  "It was a fright, I know, but we cannot afford to make emotional decisions. We have learned more today than we have in months." The duchess captured the queen's hand. "With this information we can be prepared for the next assault. We can even set a trap if we will it. Balfour clearly escaped justice once. It cannot be allowed to happen again. I want his head."

  The queen pushed to her feet, her skirts sweeping around her ankles as she strode to the edge of the dais. "Very well, Malloryn. I shall grant Miss Townsend a temporary reprieve. You have one week to bring me the head of this Ghost and his compatriots. Someone must pay for this incursion into my bloody throne room. If it is not to be Miss Townsend, then it will be these dhampir. Now get out of my sight."

  Chapter 29

  "The Core's in a former pumping station that was part of Undertown," Obsidian explained. "It's the base of all Balfour's London operations. Years ago, when the Eastern Underground Railway project was disbanded, Balfour took over the pumping station and began fitting it out as a secret facility to train his Falcons. He spent years using treasury funds to make the facility watertight, and when it was finished about fifteen years ago, the tunnels were flooded to prevent any of the local slasher gangs from taking up residence. I suspect they're not the only ones he wanted to hide from."

  Malloryn gave a thin, unamused smile. "Right about the time some mysterious unknown agent stole some top-secret documents revealing the names of all his Falcon trainees, and somehow left them on the table in the Council chambers. It derailed his entire Falcon training program. Half of them vanished overnight, particularly those who turned up in the employ of the Dukes of Goethe, Vickers, Morioch, and Bleight. The prince consort was somewhat displeased with his spymaster."

  Obsidian looked at Gemma. "How terribly awkward for Balfour. I wonder how someone got their hands on a list of all his student Falcons."

  She smiled, just faintly, and sipped her cup of blooded tea. "Balfour must have been careless and left such a list out in plain view. Or in a locked safe, if one is being particular, but who can truly say? And I suppose if he—or his Falcons—had managed to forsake a young trainee’s loyalty and cast her to the wolves, she might have taken exception with the circumstances and chosen to do something about it. I'm not saying it was my first mission for Malloryn, but there are certainly revealing coincidences in the timeline of when I defected."

  "Hence why she was immediately sent out of the country for several years," Malloryn muttered. "It was a glorious—very dangerous—blow to Balfour. I hear he wanted to see heads roll."

  That was his girl. "It seems I was transferred to the Core barely days after you defected from the Falcons. I wonder… what would it have been like if we’d met then?"

  How close their paths had come to crossing for years, but it wasn't until he'd been taken to Russia to assist in furthering Balfour's plans there, he'd come across her.

  "Kismet," Ingrid murmured.

  "Fate," Ava added.

  "Good grief," Malloryn said. "Can we focus on planning a highly intense mission into a facility full of killers?"

  All three women sighed.

  "I'd hoped marriage would soften you," Ingrid said.

  "It's romantic," Ava protested.

  "It's called pure coincidence," Malloryn replied sarcastically. "And why the hell would marriage soften me?"

  "Because I've got fifty quid riding on it," Kincaid said.

  Byrnes tried to surreptitiously punch him in the ribs, but the breath exploded from Kincaid and he hunched over.

  "Christ. Fuckin'. Jaysus. You keep forgetting your strength these days."

  "Sorry," Byrnes said, sounding anything but.

  "Fifty quid?" Malloryn's tone turned dangerous as he glanced between both men. His gaze expanded to consider the rest of the room. "I thought we'd finished this nonsense when I married Miss Hamilton?"

  Byrnes held his hands up
in surrender. "But nobody won. Technically, the bride didn't cry off, and neither did you. Ava was the only one who said you'd get Miss Hamilton to the altar, but she didn't put money on it. So the kitty still stands."Malloryn's eyes narrowed. "Precisely what are we betting on this time?"

  Seven mouths clamped suspiciously shut. Obsidian couldn’t resist a faint smile. COR was so different to what he’d known beneath Balfour. He was still growing used to their insolence, and the frustrated way Malloryn seemed to take it all in stride, but he couldn’t deny it amused him.

  "If we tell you," Gemma admitted, "then it could muddy the waters of the betting pool, because we might be subtly manipulating your decision."

  "Herbert?" Malloryn asked coldly.

  "I haven't a clue, Your Grace. I am merely the butler."

  "Ava?" Malloryn turned on the delicate blonde, as if he knew exactly whom he could break.

  "She's as guilty as the rest of us this time," Kincaid said, with a grin, as he settled an arm around his lover's waist. "I'm rubbing off on her."

  "Only because I hope my bet comes true," Ava told the duke fervently. "It would be lovely to see you happy."

  Malloryn pinched the bridge of his nose. "My God. I'm not certain if I want to know."

  Obsidian tensed, but there was no sign of any fatal eruption coming from the duke.

  Merely a pained silence.

  Balfour would have given an icy glare and a faint gesture that had one of his Falcons beating the unlucky supplicant who'd spoken half to death.

  Ghost would have simply put a bullet in the brain of the first man who thought to jest.

  That Malloryn—the duke Balfour cursed under his breath as his most dangerous opponent—merely pressed his lips tightly together in a way that said "I am unamused" left Obsidian unsettled. If there was anything that could convince him the Duke of Malloryn wasn't entirely a cold, manipulative bastard, it was the way he tolerated their banter.

  Gemma's hand slipped into his, as if she sensed his unease. "You'll get used to it."