Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (28 page)

I
NGRID SLEPT
THROUGH most of the night.

Byrnes sank into the armchair in the corner of her room and watched as the drizzle splashed against the windows.

There wasn't much he could do.
Charlie and Kincaid had tried to track the vampire whilst he dealt with his mother and Ingrid, and both had returned an hour ago, claiming that the trail vanished in the sewers.
The creature had glutted itself on blood at the Home then simply returned to wherever it was lurking, as if its purpose had been served.

Which made him wonder.
What had been its purpose there?
Anarchy?
There were far more public places it could have attacked.
And his mother was there.
The link bothered him.
The way that woman had looked at him bothered him.

Was this revenge for killing one of her vampires?
Or something else?

A sharp rap came at the door, then Malloryn strode in, decked out in full opera regalia.
A white silk scarf fluttered around his neck and he carried his top hat in his hand, but his gaze went immediately to the bed.
"Just received word," he said, shutting the door behind him.

Byrnes tensed.
The man didn't belong in here, not with Ingrid virtually unconscious.
He looked up and Malloryn paused, as if aware that boundaries had been crossed.

"Long night?"
the duke asked in a milder tone as he unfolded a newspaper from beneath his arm and tossed it at Byrnes.
"How is she?"

"Healing," he replied.
"It was...
bad."

Malloryn crossed to the bed, staring down.
"She's stronger than you think.
There's not much she cannot survive."

"I'm aware of that."
He scrunched the newspaper in his fist, his vision blanking for a second.
Knowing the facts didn't make it easier to deal with, which was unusual.
All he could see was— "The vampire gutted her.
If I hadn't arrived in time...."

He didn't need to add anything else.

Malloryn turned to face him, his arms crossing slowly as he settled that piercing gaze on Byrnes.
"This is new.
I expected you to still be at each other's throats."
He hesitated.
"Do you think I should reassign you both?
Partners with an emotional attachment don't work very well together, I've found."

Like hell.
"You can try, but I'm not going anywhere."
The words were soft with menace, and even he heard them.
Byrnes shut his eyes, trying to get a handle on his emotions.
The
hunger
whispered through his veins, resenting the other man's presence in Ingrid's bedroom.
Possessive.
Demanding.
Looked like his decision had been made, and there was no point in fighting it anymore.
"If she gets hurt again...."

"You're not the type of man who'd never forgive himself."

"You don't know me."
He looked up.
"But you're right.
I'd never forgive you."

Malloryn's gaze narrowed to slits, and he seemed to be thinking about whether he'd want Byrnes as an enemy.
"Then we shall leave the arrangement as it is.
You're clearly not thinking straight.
If I try and pair you with someone else, you'll be distracted and worrying about Ingrid.
That might prove disastrous.
I want you focused on the mission, Byrnes."
For a moment incredulousness showed in the man's expression.
"I used to think you a man after my own heart."

"What?
That I had none?
No man is invulnerable, I think.
Even you might fall prey to the gentler emotions."

Malloryn didn't quite flinch but he turned toward the window, dragging the silk scarf from around his throat.

And suddenly Byrnes understood.
"Who was she?"

"No one that you know," the Duke replied, peering out into the cold blustery night.
"Take a look at the paper."

Confession time dismissed.
Byrnes unfolded it.
The headline screamed bold.
Bloody Rampage At Nursing Home!
Blue Bloods on the Loose!

"Hell," he said.

"That pretty much sums it up."
Malloryn balled the scarf in his hands, looking vexed.
"Someone's been busy at the printing presses all night.
There was a newspaper lad right outside the opera."
He cursed under his breath.
"I thought we'd have some sort of lead by now.
Whoever is doing this has to leave a trace somewhere.
Somehow.
They can't just simply vanish."

"Ava said that Ulbricht ordered the Doeppler orbs.
We needed to run it by you, but we'd like to...
ask him a few questions."

"Done," Malloryn replied, then frowned.
"This doesn't feel like Ulbricht's style, however.
It bothers me."

"I agree."

Malloryn looked at him as though he'd done something interesting.
"Oh?"

"I think there's more to this than there seems.
Every crime scene has been flawless.
No clues, no trail to follow, or if there is one, it vanishes.
Until the Venetian Gardens, where quite conveniently there is a Doeppler orb left behind.
I've spoken to Ava—she said that Ingrid was unsettled outside Hayes's shop.
She asked if Ava could smell something, which makes me believe that the vampire was watching the orb-maker, as if it expected us to go there."

Malloryn stared into space.
"That seems quite a stretch."

"I'm an investigator.
Putting impossible pieces together is what I do.
Let's also look at the black flag, and the '0' that is the only blemish on an otherwise clueless case.
Whoever is doing this wanted us to know that the Sons of Gilead had something to do with it.
Why else would they paint those symbols?
Why else would Echelon lords be walking around with it tattooed on their wrists?
They're not hiding the symbols, not nearly well enough.
So either they are ridiculously bold and stupid, or someone is setting them up."

"I thought there was some credence to the theory that some killers leave behind calling cards of some sort.
Are the flag and symbol not just that?"

"Usually it's something bloodier—the same signature kill stroke.
I just have this gut feeling...."

"Go on," the duke replied.

"Something's wrong.
The vampire knew where to go.
It stalked through an entire borough full of potential targets before choosing that one building in Clerkenwell, one with a connection to me."

"Byrnes."

"It followed me there when I was visiting my mother.
It had to have.
But why attack now?
Why me?
What the hell drove it there?
Is someone watching us?
Was it someone from Ulbricht's ball?
There's coincidence, and then there's too many coincidences."

Malloryn looked disturbed.
"That's impossible.
Although...
the vampire does almost seem as though it's taken a particular interest in you.
Perhaps it knows you killed its...
friend."

"Not the vampire," Ingrid whispered, and both of them shot to the bed.

"Ingrid," Byrnes said, his voice suffused with relief.
"You're awake?"

She blinked sleepy eyes at him, frowning grumpily.
Her hair was a mess.
"Someone keeps talking.
How could I possibly sleep through all of that?"

Byrnes curled her hand in his and squeezed it.
She was alive and awake, and he hadn't realized until this moment how on edge he'd been.

"What did you mean about the vampire?"
Malloryn pressed.

Dark shadows haunted Ingrid's eyes.
"The woman.
The woman's controlling the vampire somehow.
And
she's
interested in Byrnes."

"That's impossible," Malloryn stated flatly.

"You keep using that word," Ingrid said with a yawn.
"Right now, I believe that anything is possible."

"The flute."
Byrnes chewed the thought over.
"I think Ingrid's right.
I'd never believe it if I hadn't seen it for myself now, but this is twice we've encountered a vampire that doesn't simply go off on a killing spree until it's cut down.
No vampire has ever walked past dozens of potential victims like that.
It should have started killing the second it came into the streets, unless it was being controlled.
These attacks are focused and planned.
I think it's trained, somehow, which is the craziest thing I've ever said, but I cannot come up with another reason.
And why is Ulbricht's mistress interested in me?"

"You killed her vampire, and tracked Ulbricht to his meeting.
Maybe she wants revenge?
Maybe she’s impressed?
I don't think she's his mistress either."
Ingrid was fighting a losing battle against sleep.
"And it was wearing some sort of collar too, now that I think of it.
One that shocked me as soon as I touched it."

They had suspected that someone was pulling the strings of the Sons of Gilead, after all.
Who better than a woman in control of one of its leading members?

"Maybe Ulbricht's not the danger?"
he mused.
"Maybe he's the distraction?"

"I'll see if any of my networks have anything," Malloryn said, watching Ingrid.
"Byrnes, tomorrow you can work with Kincaid."
Byrnes looked up sharply, but Malloryn held a hand up.
"Until Ingrid is on her feet."

"I'm fine, Your Grace," she said stubbornly, pushing up onto her hands and looking surprised to find that they trembled.

Byrnes eased her back down.
"No, you're not.
And don't look at me like that.
The sooner you get enough rest, the sooner you'll be on your feet.
You're not ready.
You'll only slow me down, and I need you at your best."

If looks could kill....

"I'll leave you to it," Malloryn murmured, and slipped through the door as if the sudden intimacy bothered him.

"I'm not an invalid," Ingrid growled the moment the door was shut.

Byrnes dragged the armchair toward the bed, then slumped into it.
"Do we have to argue about this?"

"You're the one who started it!"

"Ingrid, I had to stuff your guts back into your stomach and hope to hell that you'd heal.
There was nothing I could do.
None of my rudimentary on-scene training...."
Byrnes swore, looking away as the vision of it flashed before his eyes, taking him back to that moment.
"I thought you were going to die."
He broke off as that panicky feeling speared through him again.
Only clasping his hands together helped.
He could force the tremble down.
"I don't think I could bear it, to see you hurt again so badly."

When he looked up, her eyes were wide and startled.
All of her anger had leeched out of her and she turned her gaze to the ceiling, looking troubled.
Candlelight warmed her features.

"I thought I was going to die too," she admitted in a quiet voice.
"Just for a moment."

He swallowed the sudden fierce lump in his throat.
"I'm not cut out for this."

Ingrid looked at him, but she didn't say anything.

Byrnes reached out slowly to curl her hand into his.
Ingrid looked at it, then squeezed back gently.
He sighed.

"Sleep," he told her.
"You're safe now, and all bandaged up.
You need to rest.
And then you can work with me again."

An uncomfortable look crossed her face.
"Promise you'll watch over me while I sleep?"
Ingrid whispered, her eyelashes fluttering.
"I can't keep fighting the loupe, and it makes me feel vulnerable."

Byrnes folded himself into the seat by her bed.
"Promise."

And just like that, she stopped fighting the loupe and her own stubborn nature and her lashes fluttered shut.