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
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."