started eating him. She didn't know how old she'd
been—four or five—but she would never forget
that moment, or her screams when the rats scurried
over Viktor's corpse and nobody came to help her.
Firm hands cupped her cheeks, and suddenly
Byrnes's face swam into view, breaking through
her waking nightmares; those stark cheekbones,
and the harsh slant of his dark brows. "Then I shall
not ask."
Ingrid let go of the breath she’d been holding.
She’d expected him to push, but was thankful that
he didn’t.
“Let’s go hail that cab,” she said, and turned
away.
ELEVEN
DEBNEY SHUDDERED, wrapping both hands
around the flask of warm mulled blood that Ava
had fetched for him. The bloodied gashes at his
wrists and ankles where the chains had cut him
were gone now, healed by the craving virus, but
the night's events had shaken him.
"I don't particularly wish to be alone tonight,"
he'd told Ingrid, with shadows in his eyes, and so
Ingrid had stepped into the steam cab with him and
taken him back to Baker Street.
Malloryn was at a ball, according to Isabella
Rouchard, squiring his fiancée around town. It was
the first Ingrid had heard about his engagement, but
from the baroness's tone, she didn't like to press.
Some things were easy to guess about the humans
surrounding her, and judging from how often
Malloryn wore Isabella Rouchard's perfume, she
knew she was most likely correct in her
assumptions. The woman was his mistress.
Until Malloryn returned, she had nothing to do
but sit and wait for Jack to help decipher the coded
letter she'd found at Ulbricht's. At least Byrnes had
returned to the Guild of Nighthawks, which gave
her some peace of mind about his promised,
“later.”
"You've a visitor." Jack limped into the
workshop with his goggles sitting high on top of
his head.
"Oh?" Ingrid asked, caught in the act of
fetching a rug to wrap around Debney's shoulders.
Crisp heels rang down the staircase, and
Ingrid's heart leapt within her chest as she
recognized that step and the purposeful swish of
skirts. Rosalind Lynch, the Duchess of Bleight,
swept into view, gowned in a deep purple that
gleamed beneath the gaslight. As Jack's sister,
Rosa shared the same coppery hair and the same
stubborn mouth. Calculating brown eyes swept
Ingrid from head to toe, and then Rosa came
forward to press her lips to Ingrid's cheek.
"My, my," Rosa murmured. "You look lovely
in a gown. Or the remnants of one."
"It itches, and I can't breathe," Ingrid replied.
Rosa laughed. "There's my fierce verwulfen
friend. I was wondering what this stylish young
woman had done to you." She glanced down.
"Though she made short work of your skirts, I'm
afraid. Is that blood?"
"Not mine."
"It never is." Rosa looked amused. "Want to
tell me all about it?"
Guilt flared. No. No, she did not. Because
whilst Jack might not bat an eyelid over Byrnes's
reappearance in Ingrid's life, Rosa knew altogether
too much. And fiercely disapproved.
"Jack, will you keep an eye on the viscount
for me?" Ingrid murmured, noting the curious look
Jack gave Debney. Then she linked arms with
Rosa, drawing the duchess back upstairs, toward
the parlor. "What are you doing here?"
"I cornered Malloryn at the Parkers’ ball,"
Rosa snorted. "He told me where you were. You
haven't been at your rooms for days, though I found
Malloryn's invitation in your drawers and
recognized the writing."
"Some secret." Ingrid sighed. "And what were
you doing going through my private documents?"
Rosa looked amused. "The same thing you
were doing when I was working undercover as
Lynch's secretary. Trying to keep an eye on you.
You haven't been to dinner in an age."
Privacy, she'd learned, was practically
impossible when it came to Rosa and her two
siblings. All she needed now was young Jeremy
showing up and lecturing her about getting
involved in dangerous affairs. Which would be
somewhat ironic, considering how many times she
and Rosa had saved him by the skin of his teeth.
But then, she guessed that turnabout was fair
play. Rosa was family, and that meant more to
Ingrid than anything in the world. Meddling in each
other's lives seemed to be the price they all paid
for the warmth and love that they shared. "I've been
busy."
"Clearly." Rosa looked around. "Malloryn has
a mind like a steel trap," she warned. "Don't get
caught in its jaws."
"Brandy?" Ingrid ignored the warning,
knowing that Rosa was only worried about her.
"Would love one," Rosa replied, drawing off
her gloves as she perused the parlor. One of her
hands was entirely mechanical, and Ingrid noticed
the easy way Rosa wore it these days, when once
she'd hidden it behind a never-ending supply of
gloves. Rosa's marriage to Lynch had brought
about a newer, softer presence in her friend.
"How's the baby?" she asked, because that
was something else that had changed in Rosa's life.
"Too well behaved. He barely cries, he
sleeps most of the night, he watches everyone and
everything, and he wears this serious expression
on his face most of the time. I fear Lynch had more
involvement in Phillip's temperament than I."
Rosa's smile softened her entire face, however, for
baby Phillip was the light of her life. "It's only now
that he's reached his first birthday that I'm starting
to see a hint of stubbornness about him. He tried to
strangle his father the other day, and Lynch spent
ten minutes telling him about the importance of
cravats in a man's life, and how Phillip was to
keep his chubby little fists off them."
"Did he listen?" A quiet yearning filled her.
Ingrid adored Phillip, but it was a bittersweet
sensation.
"He stuck the end of the cravat in his mouth,
and Lynch just sighed." Rosa nursed her brandy,
reclining in the chair like the Queen of Sheba.
"So," she said, throwing down the gauntlet,
"Malloryn tells me you're working with Caleb
Byrnes again."
Which was the real reason that Rosa was
making this early morning call. "Apparently I enjoy
torturing myself."
"Really?" Rosa's dark eyes locked on her. "It
has nothing to do with bets made and...not quite
paid up?"
"I never should have told you about that,"
Ingrid growled. "And I paid what was owed.
Byrnes should have been more specific."
Rosa's eyes narrowed. "How does he feel
about thi
s partnership?"
"Bloody ecstatic, by his own proclamations. I
won't pretend that he's not interested in gaining
some measure of revenge."
"Of course he is." Rosa sipped her brandy.
"Byrnes lives for the hunt, and you, my dear, are
the one that got away."
Which was nothing that she hadn't told
herself. Ingrid threw back her brandy, then stalked
to the liquor decanter to pour another. "Then he'll
live to experience disappointment once again."
"Ingrid," Rosa warned. "You're upset. I can
tell."
"That's because I was set upon by a vampire
barely eight hours ago."
Rosa sucked in a sharp gasp. "What?"
And so Ingrid told her. As one of the
councilors on the Council of Dukes, it wasn't as
though Malloryn wouldn't have taken her into his
confidence anyway, and she trusted Rosa a hell of
a deal more than Malloryn.
All of the color had leeched out of Rosa's
face by the time she'd finished. "You're certain
there were four of them?"
"You're the one who taught me to count," she
replied irritably. "And there's only three now."
"Three's enough." Rosa scrubbed at her
mouth. "Hell. Vampires loose in London. I never
thought I'd see the day."
"Well, they're not loose yet," she replied,
softening a fraction. It was clear that Rosa was
shaken. "And they're not quite in London.
Ulbricht's manor was an hour's flight away. I'll let
you know if I see them again though. Give you time
to get Phillip out of the city."
"What about you?" Rosa asked.
Ingrid shrugged. "I survived one."
"Ingrid." There was that tone again.
"I'll be safe, Rosa. I promise."
Thoughts and plans raced behind Rosa’s dark
brown eyes. "I think you should—"
"Enough, Rosa," Ingrid said softly. "Enough.
Let's speak of other things."
"Like
Caleb
Byrnes?"
Rosa
retorted,
frustration twisting her mouth.
"Not like Caleb Byrnes."
Rosa crossed to her armchair, sinking onto the
edge of it. "Fine then. No more talk of vampires or
dangerous blue bloods. Come to dinner on
Sunday," Rosa said, holding Ingrid's hands and
squeezing them. "Promise me."
"I'll try," Ingrid replied. "It depends on this
case. But I'll send a note if I'm not going to be able
to make it."
"If you don't, then I'm going to think that
something's wrong with you, and I'll only come
looking for you again."
Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Was I ever this
painful?"
Rosa reached down to kiss her cheek. "Yes,"
she said, "you were even worse. Remember when
you threatened to skin Lynch alive if he broke my
heart?"
But Ingrid smiled. Here, with Rosa, she
belonged, and sometimes it was the only thing that
made her feel whole. “I have no recollection of
that at all.”
Rosa drew away with a snort. “He does. Now
the shoe is on the other foot. Be careful, Ingrid. I’ll
see you on Sunday.”
TWELVE
A LONG FRUITLESS day of following up on
smaller leads stretched behind Ingrid.
Jack had retreated to what they were
affectionately calling the dungeon to attempt to
decode the scrap of letter that she'd found; Byrnes
was off at the guild, coordinating the use of
Nighthawks in tramping all over the Venetian
Gardens; Gemma Townsend was reportedly setting
up surveillance on Lord Ulbricht; and Ingrid had
snatched six hours of sleep before checking in on
Ava to see if there'd been anything else from the
autopsy or the Doeppler orbs connection.
Today had been a frustrating day. No results
on any of the leads, but Ingrid knew from long
experience that these hours spent laying down the
groundwork often yielded a vital clue in the end.
One of these leads would suddenly amount to
something, and the entire case would open up.
She just wished it would happen sooner
rather than later.
Ingrid dug her thumbs up under the arch of her
brows to relieve the pressure in her aching head as
she pushed aside her notes.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, along with soft
feminine laughter.
"Are you coming?" Gemma Townsend called,
popping her head in through the door to the library,
where Ingrid had been meticulously going over her
case notes.
"Coming?" Ingrid looked up distractedly.
"Where?"
Gemma slipped inside the library, a fan
dangling from one wrist and a rather daring ruby
gown barely containing her figure. "Malloryn's
letting us off the leash for the night," Gemma said,
"while he sets his information networks to ferret
out every secret Ulbricht ever owned. So a few of
us thought we might as well see a bit of the town,
get to know each other a little better." She shrugged
one slim shoulder. "It's probably going to be our
last chance for a while, for as soon as Malloryn
discovers something, he'll have our noses to the
grindstone. The man doesn't know the meaning of
the word 'rest.'"
Time to get to know each other.... It wouldn't
hurt. After all, these people might hold her life in
their hands one day.
Ingrid looked down at the sheets of paper in
Gardens. Orbs. Connection? She'd been staring at
her notes for hours, and nothing was making sense
anymore. Time away from this place would do her
the world of good, and hopefully allow her mind to
clear. "Who's going?"
"Charlie's leading the expedition—it was his
idea, after all. And somehow he's talked Kincaid
into coming. Something about gaming hells, I
believe. Then it's just you, me, and Ava."
"No Byrnes?"
"No sign of him," Gemma replied with a
cheerful shrug. "I think he's still at the Nighthawks
Guild."
"Good." A weight lifted off Ingrid's
shoulders. She needed a night away from him
following the intensity of that kiss.
The man was dangerous to her senses.
"So... does that mean you're tempted?"
Gemma asked.
"Be more specific," Ingrid drawled, crossing
her arms over her chest, and leaning back in her
chair. "Where, precisely, are we going?" A night
out on the town could mean anything, from the
fighting pits in the East End to the automaton
theatres in Covent Gardens. And Gemma reminded
her of Rosa in some ways; flirtatious, worldly, and
cynical. She could be leading them anywhere.
Particularly astray.
Gemma's smile was pure deviousness. "The
Garden of Eden. Ava has an interest in plants and
as soon as she heard wh
ere we were heading, she
wanted to come and examine the... flora."
Flora. Ingrid's eyebrows arched. "She does
realize that plants are hardly the draw card to the
Garden?"
"Oh, I must have forgotten to mention that!"
Gemma's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Want to
come and watch her spectacles fog up when she
realizes where she is?"
Ingrid frowned, then pushed her way out of
her chair. "I'll come, if only to keep the rest of you
from leading her too far afield."
"Excellent." Gemma spun toward the door,
shooting one last glance back over her shoulder.
"But I'm going to have to insist upon a dress,
darling."
"ANOTHER?" Charlie Todd blinked as he leaned
on the table and stared her down.
Ingrid allowed herself the faintest of smiles.
"Give in before I drink you under this table."
"I can hold me drink...." He blinked again.
"Hell and damnation, are you even feeling it? You
look so bloody cool and collected."
"I'm verwulfen, Charlie," she replied,
dragging her small cheroot case out of her reticule.
"Alcohol burns through me like it's been set on
fire."
"B-burns through me too," he declared,
finding his feet and swaying a little. "But not that
bloody quickly. Here. I'll fetch another bottle." He
wove away through the crowd, swaying slightly, as
he joined Gemma at the bar.
"Amateur," Kincaid sniffed, and threw back
his glass. Considering the fact that he was purely
human, his steadiness was impressive, as he wasn't
far behind either her or Charlie. Seeing her
considering look, and interpreting it correctly, he
arched a brow. "Experience counts, love."
"There's experience," she countered, "and
then there's the type of man who's drunk enough in
his lifetime to earn some sort of immunity."
"Every man here's got his own demons," he
said, stirring his finger through the sticky ring of
brandy on the table. "And ways to deal with it. I
had a few bad years a while ago."
"It's not going to be a problem, is it?"
Kincaid's blue eyes glittered as they locked
on her. "Are you and Byrnes going to be a
problem?"
Touché. Ingrid shrugged as she lit a cheroot,
and breathed it in. The last thing she needed was
Malloryn getting wind of this. She needed the
money too much. "That's none of your concern."
"Not mine, no." His gaze slid sideways as the
swish of skirts hurried up to the table. "But if I
were a betting man, it might be someone else's."
Ava slid into the seat beside Ingrid, breathless