My Lady Quicksilver (London Steampunk #3)

My Lady Quicksilver (London Steampunk #3) Page 20

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.” A blue blood was a verwulfen’s natural enemy. Even Ingrid’s berserker-fueled strength wouldn’t help her if there were enough of them. “Promise me you won’t take any more risks. Don’t go near the city again—don’t show your eyes.”

Ingrid’s shoulders swelled, a look of burning indignation narrowing her eyes. “I’ve as much a right as you,” she growled softly. “I’ve hidden these bloody eyes half my life, down here in the dark. Now that the blue bloods have signed a truce with the Scandinavian verwulfen clans, I don’t have to hide anymore.” Her expression turned stubborn. “I won’t. It kills me to be cooped up down here, in these bloody tunnels.”

Rosalind clasped Ingrid’s hand between her own—one of the few who would dare when Ingrid was in this mood. The skin beneath her right palm was burning hot. The loupe virus that made Ingrid what she was had done more than just make her super-humanly strong. “I know.” Rosalind’s voice softened. “I’m just worried that the truce is still too new. The blue bloods have long memories and some of them are so old they still live in the past.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “If you go above, take several of the men. Or Jack, even.”

Ingrid tossed the cheroot to the floor and ground it beneath her heel, expressionless. The very blankness of her face told Rosalind how upset she was. Ingrid had long since learned to keep her temper leashed for fear of hurting someone, and her control showed in the stiff line of her shoulders.

“Truce?”

Ingrid glared at her moodily, then nodded. Rosalind grabbed her hand in a rough shake, squeezing with her iron fingers. Ingrid’s nostrils flared, but she squeezed back. The seconds dragged out, then Ingrid shoved her away, cursing under her breath.

Rosalind hit the wall and laughed—an old ritual that never failed to soothe Ingrid’s savage temper. She flexed the metal fingers, feeling the muscle grab through her forearm where the steel cables met tendon.

“If you’ve broken my hand, you’ll have to pay for it,” Rosalind warned with a smile.

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “I’ll kidnap a master smith.”

Rosalind’s mirth faded at the reminder. She pushed away from the wall. “Come. We’d best get going after these mechs. I’ll need some sleep tonight if I’m going to manage my lord Nighthawk on the morrow.” The thought tightened something within her—a feeling of shivery anticipation.

She was so distracted she didn’t even notice the sharp look her friend gave her.

Ten

Rosalind yawned as she entered her study at the guild. She’d spent half the night searching for the missing mechs. There was no sign of them anywhere in the blacksmiths, the iron foundries, or the enclaves, where they might be working steel. There were plenty of whispers about the massacres in the city, however.

Closing the door, she blinked. Something seemed out of place.

The sense of wrongness became immediately evident. Her desk was piled with a mishmash of folders, abandoned paperwork hanging precariously from the top of the pile.

The culprit was nowhere in sight.

He’d found her note. Rosalind took a step forward, surveying the scene of devastation. In the wake of all that had occurred last night, she’d quite forgotten it.

Poor timing on her behalf perhaps, though she’d been unable to help herself at the time—that rash, impulsive feeling she could never quite escape.

Control helps, she told herself, eyeing the massive pile and trying to smother her first instinct, which was retaliation. Balfour had taught her that, and while she hated him, she would use the lessons he’d given her to master her own impulses.

Finding order in this chaos, however… She sighed and reached for the top sheaf of paper. The writing was barely legible, an impatient type of script, as if Lynch couldn’t get the words out swiftly enough.

Mrs. Marberry,

Since you evidently have so little to do, I have found some old case files for you to sort. Some of them—the 1863 files, I think—refer to a rash of odd poisonings in the city. I want those files on my desk by noon. There are also lists of the blacksmiths in the city. I want them all cross-referenced against the metalworking guild’s records to see who is capable of creating bio-mech parts. The guild records are…somewhere in the pile.

Sincerely,

Lynch

P.S. I rarely sin, and when I do, it is completely intentional. I have no need of saving.

Rosalind’s lips parted as she stared at the enormous mess in front of her and then curved up in a rare smile. If he thought this was the end of it, he was wrong. Eyes narrowing, she reached for a piece of paper and her pen.

The clock on the mantel ticked twelve.

Rosalind put down the last of the files and stared at it. There’d been no sign of Lynch all morning, which should have been a good thing. It left her with time enough to dwell on her next move regarding the mechs and Jeremy’s continued absence.

Jeremy. There had to be some sign of him somewhere, some word. She couldn’t believe he’d perished in the bombing. She’d know. Wouldn’t she? He’d practically been hers to raise.

It was the first time she’d ever considered that possibility. All the bodies had been accounted for, according to the newspapers. But what if the newspapers hadn’t been allowed to know the full body count? What if, for some reason, the true body count had been kept quiet?

Her breath quickened. The unfamiliar corset clamped around her ribs like an enormous fist, slowly squeezing, and heat sprang up behind her eyes. Don’t. She shoved away from the desk, moving unconsciously toward the soft afternoon light that streamed through the window. Don’t think about it. Keep moving. Keep hunting him. You’ll find him.

Rosalind rubbed at the knuckles of her false hand, feeling the smooth join of each ball and socket through the thin satin gloves that stretched to her elbows. It ached sometimes, as if the limb were still there. Now was one of those times.

Below her, the world came and went, tiny little men in caps and coats, the ladies sporting sober bonnets and dark dresses. This wasn’t the heart of the city where the Echelon roamed in all their peacock finery. The people below her were staid, middle class, human. Her kind of people. Those she fought for. Those she’d sacrificed for.

To the point where she’d forgotten her impressionable little brother, guilt whispered. So focused on the Cyclops plan that she’d barely had time for him, focused on what she owed Nate.

Why couldn’t she find him? The ache in her chest was so fierce she could barely breathe.

Action. Take action.

Emotion crippled a man—or woman. If you couldn’t lock it away, then it was best to distract oneself with affirmative action.

Rosalind took a slow, steady breath. Lynch was the answer. She needed to get inside his head and find out what he knew about Jeremy and the bombing of the tower.

No matter what she had to do to get that information.

The observatory was cool, despite the warmth of the autumn sun outside. Lynch crossed to the north wall, with its map of the stars and the crank that opened up the roof to the skies above. Grabbing the shaft, he unlocked it with a swift flick of the finger and pulled the lever that would open it. The process had been a laborious one, featuring crank and handle, until Fitz had taken one look at the system ten years ago and mechanized it.

Probably a good thing, as the newly knit wound in his side gave a warning pull as he released the lever. Though he’d protested his fitness to his men, Doyle had taken one look at him and instructed a day of rest. Frustration had no handle on the feeling that ran through him.

His gaze narrowed on the beakers across the room and the steady drip of distillation. The observatory wasn’t only used to stargaze; indeed, with London’s smog he rarely used it for that purpose at all anymore. Instead, it had become part laboratory, part retreat. It was only here that he could force himself to stop thinking about work.

The brass dome opened with a steely rasp, like a flower revealing its petals to the sun. A fresh breeze stirred the lapel on his coat and sunlight spilled across the stone floor of the observatory, cutting off just before it reached him. Lynch skirted its edges and peered into the first beaker and the pale, tasteless liquid within. A rare poison he’d been working with for months, which could create a catatonic, almost deathlike trance.

No sign of Mercury, either on the streets or in his dreams. No, last night had been a torment of its own making, featuring the temptation that was currently sorting out his folders and keeping him from his rooms—fever dreams full of all manners of sin.

Lynch’s mouth firmed and he turned on the distillator Fitz had designed for him. The small boiler pack shuddered to life, the water within vibrating quietly. He’d give it five minutes and then steam would be filling this small corner of the observatory, quietly distilling his poisons.

Quiet footsteps caught his attention. Almost too soft to be any of the men. The first light traces of lemon perfume caught his nose.

Not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. He growled a curse under his breath and turned just as Mrs. Marberry carried a tray into the room. Sunlight spilled over her and she looked up, her eyes widening in shy surprise as she took in the open roof. The expression on her face was muted and yet struck him as more real than any other he’d seen from her.

Genuine, he thought, and wondered why that felt so right.

“Good morning,” he said, noting that the gray gown she wore fit like a glove. Black velvet buttons ran from her throat to her waist, but the fabric there curved over her hips tightly before spilling to the floor. Her bustle hinted at the soft curves of her bottom as she turned in a slow circle, looking up, and his mouth went dry at the long slope of neck revealed by the action. Coppery red hair trailed in loose tendrils from her chignon, caressing her throat. In the sunlight she was a creature of fire, her porcelain skin almost ethereal.

He wanted to put his hands on that fabric, to tear at it until he’d stripped her naked. The color slowly drained from his vision and Lynch took a sharp breath, jerking his eyes away. His pulse ticked heavily in his ears, a dull throbbing beat that should serve as warning to any blue blood.

“It’s afternoon I believe,” she said, placing the tray on a messy desk. “Doyle said you asked me to bring a tray to your observatory.” Her voice faded as she evidently turned her back on him, examining the contents of the room with interest. “What the devil is—”

Lynch looked up just as she reached for a curious spiked object on one of his workbenches. “Don’t!” he snapped, leaping across the room toward her.

His arms locked around her waist as her gloved finger brushed over the steel tips on the back of the mechanical hedgehog. Once activated, the pressure build-up caused each spine to explode outward.

Lynch ended up with a soft, warm armful of serge and velvet that gasped against his chest. Rosa caught a handful of his cravat, a steely, frightened expression on her face before it suddenly smoothed out.

“Goodness,” she said, her breath catching. “You startled me.”

The fingers of her left hand were locked around the crisp white linen of his cravat. Lynch cleared his throat. “You’re strangling me.”

Instantly she let him go.

Lynch reached for her right hand then paused. “May I?”

She considered his outstretched hand dubiously, then slowly placed her fingers within his grasp. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He tilted her hand over, reaching for the tips of her gloves. Rosalind sucked in a sharp breath and Lynch stilled, his gaze lifting to hers. “The tips are poisoned with curare, a very dangerous poison from South America.” He slowly tugged at the glove, sliding it over her hand. “I need to make sure you didn’t break the skin.”

Reluctance made her spine steel. He could feel her body trembling beneath the hand that stroked the small of her back as he dragged the glove free.

“I barely touched it,” she whispered.

“Please.”

Her hand was small and pale, the skin soft against his. Lynch slowly turned it over, examining the unmarked pads of her fingertips. Relief spread through his chest, and his thumb stroked the indentation across her palm. “No cuts.”

“I could have told you that.” The tremble was gone from her voice, but something about her tone caught his attention.

She was watching his thumb through half-lidded, wary eyes. Lynch stopped the movement, suddenly aware of how intimate this was. The blue veins of her wrist were splayed vulnerably in front of him—a temptation and a mockery. As if she were aware of where his gaze had dropped, she stiffened.

He let her go. “I don’t take my blood directly from the source,” he said, putting a step between them.