Forged by Desire
Page 11
Pushing into the library, Garrett nodded to the warden and strode to the locked clockwork doors that opened into Storage. Dozens of interlocking gears covered the heavy brass door. The only way to open it was to correctly turn two or three gears, so that the whole thing would turn. Turn the wrong one, though, and it would lock tight.
“One would presume the draining factory party was comprised of Russians or the Bavarians or Saxons.” Perry followed him inside. “The Scandinavian verwulfen clans would have little interest in learning how to collect and store blood.”
“I’ll send Hayes and Larkin out to check the docking records at the airfields to see who arrived and when.”
“I thought you liked Sykes for the murders.” She closed the door behind them.
“I do. But I’m going to keep all the possibilities open.”
Storage was a set of rooms with cold iron lockers in rows. A good thing they kept new evidence compiled in the lockers nearest the doors. Tugging out his identity card—a square brass card with ridges and indentations in it—he slid it home into the slot on the nearest locker. Metal teeth crunched through the matching holes in his card, and then the locker opened.
The logbook was heavier than he remembered. Garrett flipped through the pages, with Perry peering over his shoulder, her body nestled close to his. The moment he caught her faint vanilla scent, his body went still.
Sometimes he could forget her or the cursed heat of the craving within him. And then she would do something to draw his attention back to her, even something as innocuous as standing beside him.
He breathed her scent in, tasting the vanilla oil on his tongue. Sweet. Where did she wear it? A touch to her wrists and the side of her throat?
Garrett swallowed hard. He tried to blink away the flashes of dark shadow that threatened to consume him. “Count Mikhail Golorukov, Countess Yekaterina Orlova, Prince Pyotr Demitzkoy, and Duchess Elizabeta Kalovna.”
“They’re definitely Russian,” she murmured in a small voice that drew his attention.
Something about her expression warned him that she’d noticed his withdrawal. Hopefully not the reason for it. “How do you know such a thing? I couldn’t tell a Bavarian designation from a Russian one. I can barely pronounce either.”
A little shrug that could have meant nothing at all. “I read the papers.”
“Well.” He snapped the logbook shut. “At least we have some names to ask questions about—a connection between the Echelon and the factory. I’ll send Larkin to inquire quietly into Golorukov and Demitzkoy.”
“I wouldn’t presume that the killer is a man.”
“Not that I doubt you—or any other woman—could kill someone, but statistically the chances are higher, you must admit.” He started toward the door.
“In normal circumstances I might agree with you. But we’re dealing with the Russian court. Both men and women are allowed to be infected with the craving there, and each is equally as dangerous as the other. They make the Echelon look like a bunch of lambs. Or so I’ve heard.”
Garrett held the door open for her. “Fine. Then we shall quietly investigate all of them. And their retainers. And anyone else they happened to bring. Satisfied?”
“I’m simply trying to be thorough.”
The memory of her hands skating over his abdomen the day before shot through his mind. Garrett took a deep breath. Thoroughness was her forte. “Well, we certainly can’t accuse you of being slapdash. What next?”
“It’s Tuesday,” she said.
“Followed closely by Wednesday, yes.”
Perry glanced over her shoulder, the weak light from the library’s sconces dappling her face with shadows. “Lynch shall be arriving shortly for our appointment if you’ve no current need for me.”
The door jerked out of his hand, the gears springing out and rotating into a variety of higgledy-piggledy positions. “How could I forget?” Garrett murmured. Lynch and Perry sparred every Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll chase Dr. Gibson down over those autopsy results.”
Seven
The feel of the hilt in her hand was a welcome respite. Perry slid the weapon—an elegant rapier, in a style similar to that preferred at court—from its rack and let its weight balance on her fingers. She stared down the long sliver of its blade, wrapped her fingers firmly around the hilt, then stepped back.
Perfectly balanced.
The room had been an orangery before the building became home to the guild headquarters. Lynch had ruthlessly stripped out all of the plants and transformed the room into a boxing saloon of sorts. Heavy matting protected some of the floor, and boxing bags swung from the iron rafters. The ceiling and most of the eastern wall were made of glass, through which one could see the denseness of London stretching into the distance.
It was empty of Nighthawks now, for Lynch despised being a form of entertainment. Every Tuesday morning he booked the room for the pair of them, and others knew better than to enter.
The only witnesses were Rosalind, who Lynch could never say no to, and Charles Finch, the enormous bruiser who presided over the room as the weapons master. Rosalind crossed the floor in a swish of dark green taffeta skirts and peered out through the glass windows, her leather gloved fingertips pressing lightly against the glass panes. Rain patterned the glass, distorting the view of the city.
As usual, Lynch’s head turned to track Rosalind. He did that often. As if just the sight of his wife was a pleasure in itself. A small, wriggling worm of jealousy bit at Perry, but she’d long since accepted that no man would ever hold her in such regard. And though she might have dreamed of it, whenever Garrett looked at her lately, it was with a sense of wariness, as if he was trying to puzzle something out about her.
Yesterday had changed nothing. For one blissful moment, there’d been a hint of something between them, a dangerously seductive glimmer of something more than friendship. He’d given her that smile, the predatory one he reserved for ladies he was pursuing, and then all of a sudden he’d reverted to the friendly distance he’d been holding her at for most of the last month.
“Shall we begin, Your Grace?” Tension coiled within her, just begging to be unleashed in one way or the other. “Or would you prefer us to leave you alone with Rosa so you may stare at her ever so prettily?”
Lynch shot her a long, slow look. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I’ve a mind to take you over my knee.”
“You’re showing your age,” she retorted. “You sound like my grandfather.”
“Father perhaps,” Lynch grunted, selecting his own blade. “I’m old enough.”
“I’ve noticed you’re slowing,” she replied. “I’m sure Master Finch has some liniment somewhere for your aching joints.”
Lynch’s gray eyes flashed fire and he shared a rare smile with her. It softened the hawkish features of his face, and she knew that few ever won that smile. The former Master of the Nighthawks had forged a family, a force, out of those the Echelon decreed rogues, and he’d done it by making himself into a finely honed weapon. Cold steel tempered only by his wife’s fire and the few careful friendships he’d established among his fellows—Doyle, Byrnes, herself, and even Garrett, once upon a time. “Careful, Perry. Or I shall be forced to prove just how slow I can be.”
His rapier slashed toward her with stunning speed. Perry parried with a shriek of steel, leaping back out of the way.
Lynch circled her. He no longer wore the leathers of a Nighthawk, but he’d not disdained black. Stripping out of his coat, he tossed it aside and rolled his broad shoulders. There was not a single sign of weakness in his flesh. He was pure muscle, built to take his enemies down.
He’d need it, now that he served on the Council of Dukes that ruled the city.
The pair of them settled into a slow dance of feinting. Perry’s muscles loosened, her feet seeming to float beneath her of their own accord. This was the time when she felt most alive. No time for troubling thoughts.
“For goodness’ sake, stop playing with each other,” Rosalind called. “We have an appointment with Sir Gideon Scott for a luncheon with the Humans First Party.”
“As you wish, darling.” As he swept in front of his wife, he shot Perry a grimace Rosa couldn’t see. He’d accepted the dukedom for the power to keep the deadly prince consort at bay, but politics tended to make Lynch’s eyes stutter shut.
The next second, his blade was slashing toward her. Perry parried, her wrists light and fluid, almost like an artist wielding his brush. That was what Garrett had never understood, and why he had little talent with a sword. He preferred to slash and hack with wide, ringing strokes that never landed because Perry was simply too quick for him, darting beneath his guard to tap him on the chest, the arm, the wrist, just to prove that she could.
Lynch, however… He’d also been born to the Echelon and had learned to duel at his father’s knee. Every dispute in the Echelon was settled with a blade, and it was the only way to promote oneself in the world. Kill the head of your House in a duel, and you inherited their position of power.
Steel rang on steel, and Perry shot Lynch a swift grin as the edge of her rapier slashed through his sleeve. No time to congratulate herself; he thrust toward her, using his greater height and reach as an advantage. Perry had to arch back to avoid being skewered.
The blades began to dance quicker and quicker, the ringing sound echoing in the rafters. No time for thought, only action, her arm moving before her eyes even saw the telltale hint of movement in her adversary’s body.
Lynch swept low, his boot hooking behind hers.
“Bloody—” Perry went down with a snarl, hitting the floor and rolling up over her shoulder so that she was on her feet again. She barely had her footing when he was upon her again, beating down hard on the sword in her hand. Her wrist jarred but she held on grimly, trying to scurry back across the floor to gain some room to straighten.
There was none. Lynch was ruthless, sweeping the tip of her rapier out of the way so that the blade was flung aside and pressing his own up under her chin.
Perry froze.
“Old dogs know many tricks,” he said, breathing hard. “You duel with all the politeness of one of the Echelon. Don’t forget you’re a Nighthawk. Fight like one.”
Perry let out the breath she’d been holding as he stepped back. Her rapier lay on the ground several feet away. She glared at it.
“You’ll regret such advice when she kicks you in the unmentionables,” Rosalind teased, coming forward with his coat.
Perry rolled to her feet, bending to fetch her discarded steel. “I could never do such a thing to you, Rosa. I promise I’ll aim for something less debilitating.”
“How considerate.” They shared a smile, though Perry still felt a little shy around the other woman. They’d known each other only a month, and yet it was nice to be friends with another woman for a change.
“Your concern for my consort is touching,” Lynch drawled. “Don’t think I’m going to drop my guard, though.”
“I wouldn’t expect it.” Perry shared a grin with him. If Lynch was foolish enough to think she wouldn’t use every advantage, then he deserved what he got and he knew it. “Can I ask you something?”
Lynch paused in the act of handing Finch the rapier. “Of course.”
“You’ve heard about the murders at the draining factory?”
“Yes.”
“A party of Russians was taken through there a week ago.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I was there, with several others of the Council. A grand display of our greatest technology.”
Of course he would have been. “Did any of them seem particularly interested in the facility?”
“Not even remotely,” he drawled. “Countess Orlova could barely stop yawning. They didn’t understand why we would want to store our blood, rather than drink it fresh from the vein. It’s…a different culture and they’re not bound by the same afflictions we are.”
“You mean, by humans who refuse to be cattle?” Rosa asked with a deadly sweet smile.
“Precisely. If they want blood, then they take it. No matter the consequences. They own many serfs and, regrettably, have little concern for the sanctity of human life.” He paused. “You think they had something to do with the murders?”
“It’s a theory, among others. We’re trying to ascertain the link between the draining factory and two debutantes.”
“Certainly unusual.” Lynch frowned.
“Come on,” Rosa clucked, holding up his coat. “We’ll be late. And you’re getting that look in your eye.”
“Are you going to say good morning to the men before you leave?” Perry asked.
Lynch paused in the act of sliding his arms into his coat. Rosalind slid it over his shoulders, her expression neutral as she patted it into place.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” he replied. “I am no longer their master. They have another now. He needs to establish himself as the man in charge.”
“A deed that would be slightly easier if you’d speak to him,” Perry dared to say. “The men know you’ve not spoken a word to him in the last month. It makes it difficult for Garrett to establish his command, considering some think he’s usurped you. There are rumors—”
“Then he needs to learn how to deal with them,” Lynch shot back.
Rosalind straightened his lapels, shooting Perry a glance. “Perhaps if you greeted him in public as—”
“One would presume the draining factory party was comprised of Russians or the Bavarians or Saxons.” Perry followed him inside. “The Scandinavian verwulfen clans would have little interest in learning how to collect and store blood.”
“I’ll send Hayes and Larkin out to check the docking records at the airfields to see who arrived and when.”
“I thought you liked Sykes for the murders.” She closed the door behind them.
“I do. But I’m going to keep all the possibilities open.”
Storage was a set of rooms with cold iron lockers in rows. A good thing they kept new evidence compiled in the lockers nearest the doors. Tugging out his identity card—a square brass card with ridges and indentations in it—he slid it home into the slot on the nearest locker. Metal teeth crunched through the matching holes in his card, and then the locker opened.
The logbook was heavier than he remembered. Garrett flipped through the pages, with Perry peering over his shoulder, her body nestled close to his. The moment he caught her faint vanilla scent, his body went still.
Sometimes he could forget her or the cursed heat of the craving within him. And then she would do something to draw his attention back to her, even something as innocuous as standing beside him.
He breathed her scent in, tasting the vanilla oil on his tongue. Sweet. Where did she wear it? A touch to her wrists and the side of her throat?
Garrett swallowed hard. He tried to blink away the flashes of dark shadow that threatened to consume him. “Count Mikhail Golorukov, Countess Yekaterina Orlova, Prince Pyotr Demitzkoy, and Duchess Elizabeta Kalovna.”
“They’re definitely Russian,” she murmured in a small voice that drew his attention.
Something about her expression warned him that she’d noticed his withdrawal. Hopefully not the reason for it. “How do you know such a thing? I couldn’t tell a Bavarian designation from a Russian one. I can barely pronounce either.”
A little shrug that could have meant nothing at all. “I read the papers.”
“Well.” He snapped the logbook shut. “At least we have some names to ask questions about—a connection between the Echelon and the factory. I’ll send Larkin to inquire quietly into Golorukov and Demitzkoy.”
“I wouldn’t presume that the killer is a man.”
“Not that I doubt you—or any other woman—could kill someone, but statistically the chances are higher, you must admit.” He started toward the door.
“In normal circumstances I might agree with you. But we’re dealing with the Russian court. Both men and women are allowed to be infected with the craving there, and each is equally as dangerous as the other. They make the Echelon look like a bunch of lambs. Or so I’ve heard.”
Garrett held the door open for her. “Fine. Then we shall quietly investigate all of them. And their retainers. And anyone else they happened to bring. Satisfied?”
“I’m simply trying to be thorough.”
The memory of her hands skating over his abdomen the day before shot through his mind. Garrett took a deep breath. Thoroughness was her forte. “Well, we certainly can’t accuse you of being slapdash. What next?”
“It’s Tuesday,” she said.
“Followed closely by Wednesday, yes.”
Perry glanced over her shoulder, the weak light from the library’s sconces dappling her face with shadows. “Lynch shall be arriving shortly for our appointment if you’ve no current need for me.”
The door jerked out of his hand, the gears springing out and rotating into a variety of higgledy-piggledy positions. “How could I forget?” Garrett murmured. Lynch and Perry sparred every Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll chase Dr. Gibson down over those autopsy results.”
Seven
The feel of the hilt in her hand was a welcome respite. Perry slid the weapon—an elegant rapier, in a style similar to that preferred at court—from its rack and let its weight balance on her fingers. She stared down the long sliver of its blade, wrapped her fingers firmly around the hilt, then stepped back.
Perfectly balanced.
The room had been an orangery before the building became home to the guild headquarters. Lynch had ruthlessly stripped out all of the plants and transformed the room into a boxing saloon of sorts. Heavy matting protected some of the floor, and boxing bags swung from the iron rafters. The ceiling and most of the eastern wall were made of glass, through which one could see the denseness of London stretching into the distance.
It was empty of Nighthawks now, for Lynch despised being a form of entertainment. Every Tuesday morning he booked the room for the pair of them, and others knew better than to enter.
The only witnesses were Rosalind, who Lynch could never say no to, and Charles Finch, the enormous bruiser who presided over the room as the weapons master. Rosalind crossed the floor in a swish of dark green taffeta skirts and peered out through the glass windows, her leather gloved fingertips pressing lightly against the glass panes. Rain patterned the glass, distorting the view of the city.
As usual, Lynch’s head turned to track Rosalind. He did that often. As if just the sight of his wife was a pleasure in itself. A small, wriggling worm of jealousy bit at Perry, but she’d long since accepted that no man would ever hold her in such regard. And though she might have dreamed of it, whenever Garrett looked at her lately, it was with a sense of wariness, as if he was trying to puzzle something out about her.
Yesterday had changed nothing. For one blissful moment, there’d been a hint of something between them, a dangerously seductive glimmer of something more than friendship. He’d given her that smile, the predatory one he reserved for ladies he was pursuing, and then all of a sudden he’d reverted to the friendly distance he’d been holding her at for most of the last month.
“Shall we begin, Your Grace?” Tension coiled within her, just begging to be unleashed in one way or the other. “Or would you prefer us to leave you alone with Rosa so you may stare at her ever so prettily?”
Lynch shot her a long, slow look. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I’ve a mind to take you over my knee.”
“You’re showing your age,” she retorted. “You sound like my grandfather.”
“Father perhaps,” Lynch grunted, selecting his own blade. “I’m old enough.”
“I’ve noticed you’re slowing,” she replied. “I’m sure Master Finch has some liniment somewhere for your aching joints.”
Lynch’s gray eyes flashed fire and he shared a rare smile with her. It softened the hawkish features of his face, and she knew that few ever won that smile. The former Master of the Nighthawks had forged a family, a force, out of those the Echelon decreed rogues, and he’d done it by making himself into a finely honed weapon. Cold steel tempered only by his wife’s fire and the few careful friendships he’d established among his fellows—Doyle, Byrnes, herself, and even Garrett, once upon a time. “Careful, Perry. Or I shall be forced to prove just how slow I can be.”
His rapier slashed toward her with stunning speed. Perry parried with a shriek of steel, leaping back out of the way.
Lynch circled her. He no longer wore the leathers of a Nighthawk, but he’d not disdained black. Stripping out of his coat, he tossed it aside and rolled his broad shoulders. There was not a single sign of weakness in his flesh. He was pure muscle, built to take his enemies down.
He’d need it, now that he served on the Council of Dukes that ruled the city.
The pair of them settled into a slow dance of feinting. Perry’s muscles loosened, her feet seeming to float beneath her of their own accord. This was the time when she felt most alive. No time for troubling thoughts.
“For goodness’ sake, stop playing with each other,” Rosalind called. “We have an appointment with Sir Gideon Scott for a luncheon with the Humans First Party.”
“As you wish, darling.” As he swept in front of his wife, he shot Perry a grimace Rosa couldn’t see. He’d accepted the dukedom for the power to keep the deadly prince consort at bay, but politics tended to make Lynch’s eyes stutter shut.
The next second, his blade was slashing toward her. Perry parried, her wrists light and fluid, almost like an artist wielding his brush. That was what Garrett had never understood, and why he had little talent with a sword. He preferred to slash and hack with wide, ringing strokes that never landed because Perry was simply too quick for him, darting beneath his guard to tap him on the chest, the arm, the wrist, just to prove that she could.
Lynch, however… He’d also been born to the Echelon and had learned to duel at his father’s knee. Every dispute in the Echelon was settled with a blade, and it was the only way to promote oneself in the world. Kill the head of your House in a duel, and you inherited their position of power.
Steel rang on steel, and Perry shot Lynch a swift grin as the edge of her rapier slashed through his sleeve. No time to congratulate herself; he thrust toward her, using his greater height and reach as an advantage. Perry had to arch back to avoid being skewered.
The blades began to dance quicker and quicker, the ringing sound echoing in the rafters. No time for thought, only action, her arm moving before her eyes even saw the telltale hint of movement in her adversary’s body.
Lynch swept low, his boot hooking behind hers.
“Bloody—” Perry went down with a snarl, hitting the floor and rolling up over her shoulder so that she was on her feet again. She barely had her footing when he was upon her again, beating down hard on the sword in her hand. Her wrist jarred but she held on grimly, trying to scurry back across the floor to gain some room to straighten.
There was none. Lynch was ruthless, sweeping the tip of her rapier out of the way so that the blade was flung aside and pressing his own up under her chin.
Perry froze.
“Old dogs know many tricks,” he said, breathing hard. “You duel with all the politeness of one of the Echelon. Don’t forget you’re a Nighthawk. Fight like one.”
Perry let out the breath she’d been holding as he stepped back. Her rapier lay on the ground several feet away. She glared at it.
“You’ll regret such advice when she kicks you in the unmentionables,” Rosalind teased, coming forward with his coat.
Perry rolled to her feet, bending to fetch her discarded steel. “I could never do such a thing to you, Rosa. I promise I’ll aim for something less debilitating.”
“How considerate.” They shared a smile, though Perry still felt a little shy around the other woman. They’d known each other only a month, and yet it was nice to be friends with another woman for a change.
“Your concern for my consort is touching,” Lynch drawled. “Don’t think I’m going to drop my guard, though.”
“I wouldn’t expect it.” Perry shared a grin with him. If Lynch was foolish enough to think she wouldn’t use every advantage, then he deserved what he got and he knew it. “Can I ask you something?”
Lynch paused in the act of handing Finch the rapier. “Of course.”
“You’ve heard about the murders at the draining factory?”
“Yes.”
“A party of Russians was taken through there a week ago.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I was there, with several others of the Council. A grand display of our greatest technology.”
Of course he would have been. “Did any of them seem particularly interested in the facility?”
“Not even remotely,” he drawled. “Countess Orlova could barely stop yawning. They didn’t understand why we would want to store our blood, rather than drink it fresh from the vein. It’s…a different culture and they’re not bound by the same afflictions we are.”
“You mean, by humans who refuse to be cattle?” Rosa asked with a deadly sweet smile.
“Precisely. If they want blood, then they take it. No matter the consequences. They own many serfs and, regrettably, have little concern for the sanctity of human life.” He paused. “You think they had something to do with the murders?”
“It’s a theory, among others. We’re trying to ascertain the link between the draining factory and two debutantes.”
“Certainly unusual.” Lynch frowned.
“Come on,” Rosa clucked, holding up his coat. “We’ll be late. And you’re getting that look in your eye.”
“Are you going to say good morning to the men before you leave?” Perry asked.
Lynch paused in the act of sliding his arms into his coat. Rosalind slid it over his shoulders, her expression neutral as she patted it into place.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” he replied. “I am no longer their master. They have another now. He needs to establish himself as the man in charge.”
“A deed that would be slightly easier if you’d speak to him,” Perry dared to say. “The men know you’ve not spoken a word to him in the last month. It makes it difficult for Garrett to establish his command, considering some think he’s usurped you. There are rumors—”
“Then he needs to learn how to deal with them,” Lynch shot back.
Rosalind straightened his lapels, shooting Perry a glance. “Perhaps if you greeted him in public as—”
