Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (3 page)

"Someone you swore you’d never work with again,” Gemma Townsend said softly, her challenging gaze locked on Malloryn’s.

There was a moment's pause as the two of them stared at each other.

"Someone experienced in the arts of espionage,” Malloryn corrected emotionlessly, dropping the final file onto the desk.

Miss Townsend looked away, as if there was far more to it than that.

Interesting.

"There are others who have already been briefed on the situation,” Malloryn said.
"In my absence the baroness will be the leader of this group and you will report directly to her.
Jack Fairchild is our resident inventor, whom Miss McLaren will be working with, and Herbert will handle… security.
Anything else?"

Every single hand in the room went up, but Malloryn ignored them as he circled the room and gestured to the baroness.
"If you would, Isabella.
It’s easier if I show them."

The baroness wheeled a screen into place and Malloryn flicked a switch on the projector at the back of the room.

Byrnes leaned forward in his chair as a photograph appeared: a street, middle class by the look of it, with abandoned handcarts and steam cabs sitting under a line of washing.
He recognized the place immediately and that old thrill tickled through his veins.
Begby Square.
An unsolved case.
There was nothing more interesting than a riddle that remained unsolved.

That alone might convince him to go along with this.

"The Packenham riots were just the beginning.
In March, an entire street of people vanished near Begby Square.
Despite Nighthawk assistance not a single person has been recovered out of fifty-three.
Nobody knows where the Begby Square people are, or what happened to them.
In most of the houses dishes lay covered with half-eaten dinners, and washing was hung to dry as though it were a normal day.
Only a single baby remained behind, crying in his crib.
No blood, minimal signs of violence such as scattered dishes, and no tracks or scent trail.
It all happened within the space of two hours, just as evening fell on March sixteenth."

Malloryn flicked the slide.
A sandy arena sprang to view, spattered with blackened shadows of blood and covered in bodies.
"The Devil's Pit, beneath the Barking Dog Tavern on the outskirts of Whitechapel.
The entire crowd was slaughtered, and most of the combatants.
Nobody knows who did it, but the doors were locked from the outside.
Considering the location we left the scene to Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel, to solve.
So far, he's got nothing.
No scent, no tracks, just slaughter."

Byrnes's interest sharpened.
He'd heard nothing of this, but that was not unusual.
The Devil of Whitechapel was a force of his own, and had been part of the consortium that overthrew the prince consort during the revolution.
He policed his own territories with his gang of ruffians, and Nighthawks were rarely invited in.
Charlie Todd, however, didn’t look surprised, and he was one of Blade's lieutenants.

Something caught his attention as Malloryn flicked through several slides from the fighting pits.
"Wait a minute," Byrnes called.
"Go back to that previous slide.
There
."
He pointed.
"That black flag painted on the wall, with the letters above it...
that symbol was on the walls at Begby Square."

"Very good.
So it was."
Malloryn pressed the slides forward.
More images, more chaos.
"The same symbol appears on the nearby walls at the St.
Andrew’s Church in Holborn, where the local congregation was attempting to rebuild the church now that the laws against humans practicing religion have been relaxed."
A photograph showed a man crucified outside the burning church.
"The newly ordained priest, Joseph Cannon.
Or should I say, the late Reverend Joseph Cannon.
The symbol also appeared at the abandoned King Street enclaves last month, where fourteen mechs lay crushed in the machinery.
All of them had worked there in the past, and there was no reason for them to be there once the project was abandoned."

"Four incidents in London," Byrnes mused.

"That we know of," Malloryn hastily corrected.
"Since March this year."

"Traditionally, a black flag has been a symbol of anarchy," Ingrid said with a frown.
"What do the letters painted above them say?"

Malloryn flicked hastily through the slides until he showed a closer view of the symbol.
"Sometimes it reads SOG.
Sometimes it is simply the number zero.
At the enclaves, it was a numeral three."

"Which means?"
Ingrid asked.

Malloryn leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"That's what I am interested in discovering.
People are growing scared and there is a rumor on the streets that the queen's new rule isn't so different to the prince consort's.
All of the progress that the queen and the Council of Dukes have made in the past three years to improve the city and create peace between the factions and species has been obliterated."

"No scent," Kincaid said.
"Slaughter...
that sounds like a blue blood to me.
Any of your pasty-faced lords unaccounted for?"

"No member of the Echelon did this—"

"How do you know it's not a member of the Echelon?"
Kincaid demanded.

"Because information is currency, and I'm the type of person who is extremely rich in information.
No one blue blood
could
do this.

"Every time the queen and the Council of Dukes make a proclamation—such as the reformation of the Anti-Religious Act—someone goes out and wreaks havoc against the very thing that we are trying to improve.
I've seen broadsheets stating that the queen rules that people can gather at houses of worship again, then goes and slaughters the lot of them, just to prove that they can't.
People are scared," Malloryn said, resting his hip on the edge of his desk.
"And when people become scared, trouble starts to occur.

"I need to know who is doing this and my traditional network isn't coming up with answers.
In short order, that's why you're all sitting here.
You have been invited to form a company of elite agents to protect the queen and the people of the city.
Are you in?"

"What if we're not?"
Kincaid's voice roughened.

"I'm fairly certain that Jem Whitlow was your cousin, was he not?"
Malloryn lifted a folder from his desk and flipped through it, though Byrnes was fairly certain that Malloryn had the information memorized.
"Whitlow spent eleven years in the King Street enclaves before helping you march on the Ivory Tower to cast the prince consort down.
Imagine that...
eleven years in hell, then three blissful years of freedom before someone crushes him beneath a manufacturing machine—"

"I know what eleven years of hell in the enclaves feel like," Kincaid snapped.
"I don't have to imagine it."

"Don't you want to find out who killed him?"
Malloryn arched a brow.

Silence.
The entire group focused on the burly mech.

"The enclaves are mine," Kincaid finally said, his jaw jutting pugnaciously.
"I get to hunt the bastards as did this."

"Done."
Malloryn gave no sign of satisfaction other than a slight heaviness around his eyelids.
"Everybody else?"

"Aye," both Byrnes and Ingrid said at the same time.
They shot each other a sharp look as the others echoed them.

"What do we call ourselves?"
Charlie called.

"Malloryn's Henchmen?"
This from Gemma.

"The Merry Men—and Women," Charlie Todd countered.

"Malloryn’s Misfits?”
suggested Gemma again.

Malloryn did not quite roll his eyes.
"I'm sure you'll all think of something."
Grabbing a stack of files, he and Isabella began handing them out to people.
"Byrnes, I know you're familiar with the Begby case.
I want you back on it."

Byrnes stared hungrily at the images on the screen, the bloody and broken bodies in the enclaves.
Then he sighed.
"It's a cold scene, sir.
Seven months cold, to be precise."

"True."
Malloryn's eyes glittered.
"But
these
disappearances aren't.
Same type of scene, same kind of mayhem.
Happened last night."
Sliding a folder across the table toward Byrnes, he straightened.
"We move fast, we keep it quiet, and we stop whoever is doing this before the general public finds out about it."

Byrnes dragged the file toward him with his fingertips.
A case, one that nobody had been able to solve last time.
Intriguing.

Byrnes lifted the edge of the folder as Malloryn muttered something.

"Hell, no," Ingrid stated flatly.

That made him look up.
He'd missed something.

"You brought down the Vampire of Drury Lane," Malloryn replied.
"Your expertise is exceedingly valuable, and you and Byrnes should make one hell of a team."

Team.
Everything in him went on point.
Like bloody hell.
This was his case.
His—

"I would rather spend the rest of my days knitting," Ingrid stated, crossing her arms.
"There's no way I'll work with Byrnes."

Byrnes slowly tilted his head to look at her.
That stubborn mouth was set in a line he remembered only too clearly and suddenly his brain kicked into gear.
A flash of memory cut through his emotions: of himself lying naked on his bed, finally forced to concede and yell for help once he realized he couldn't get free of the silk stockings binding him to the bed.
"Sounds like an excellent idea," he found himself saying, and suddenly he was the recipient of every stare in the room.

"It— What—?"
Ingrid demanded.
"Are you mad?
Or drunk?
We very nearly killed each other last time."

"Think about it, Ingrid.
My experience, my skills at deduction married with your strength, and your skills at tracking, so much better than mine," Byrnes said, watching her eyes narrow as he laid it on thick.
Oh yes, my dear.
Now you're catching on.
"Who else could handle such a case?"

"Anybody in this room."

"What's wrong?"
Byrnes taunted, letting silence fill the gap, until the moment had stretched out long enough.
"Scared?"

Ingrid's almond-shaped eyes narrowed to thin slits.
They really were beautiful, though at the moment, they were practically incinerating.
"Of you?
I don't think so."

"Excellent," Malloryn interceded.
"Consider yourself enlisted, ladies and gentlemen.
You're now protectors of the realm.
I'll give the rest of you your own assignments the second these two stop arguing with each other, and then I need some eyes on the ground at the Venetian Gardens scene.
Understood?"

L
IGHTS FLOODED THE Venetian Gardens
, a dirigible flooding the scene with sweeping light as it hovered over the walled pleasure gardens.
It was one of the latest improvements to the Nighthawks' ability to fight crime, but Byrnes personally thought it a waste of taxpayers' money.
He much preferred an on-foot hunt with the scent of a criminal in his nostrils, and pavement under his feet.

Reporters hovered like vultures, the flashbulbs of their cameras hammering his retinas as he tipped his head to the pair of Nighthawks on duty at the gates.
"Brasham, Copeland.
What have we got?"

"Not sure, Byrnes," Copeland said with a scowl.
"The bloody Duke of Malloryn won't let us in, so we've been set to nursemaid the gates until his 'elite' unit arrives."

Byrnes eyed the reporters.
"Someone seems to think this is a major case.
Have you heard anything?"

"Thirty or forty people vanished from the Grand Pavilion"—Brasham clicked his fingers—"like smoke.
The Earl of Carrington was hosting some sort of party there.
When sunrise started to come up, the manager of the gardens realized that his blue blood guests ought to be departing soon if they were going to beat the sun home, so he opened the door and...
nothing.
Apparently."

"An earl."
That was going to be bothersome.
The aristocratic Echelon might no longer be in charge of the city, but they could make things difficult if they wished to.
"No wonder the
London Standard
is haunting us."

"I thought it might have been your pretty eyes they were captivated with," Ingrid said, appearing at his side with little fanfare.
"Are we going in or not?"

Copeland's eyes widened as he took her in, bearing all the hallmarks of masculine appreciation.
"Ma'am.
Unfortunately we've got orders to—"

"Keep the scene's integrity preserved," Ingrid finished, practically batting her eyelashes at the man.
"Until Malloryn's unit gets here."

"Ah, yes, ma'am."
Copeland's stance softened, a smile flickering over his mouth.

Byrnes bared his teeth.
It might have passed for a smile.
He hoped.
"Well, I think we're the elite unit you're waiting for."
Tugging a sealed letter from his waistcoat pocket, he shoved it in Copeland's face before the bloody idiot could fall at Ingrid's feet in worship.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Byrnes?"
Brasham asked, taking the letter off a flummoxed Copeland and examining it.

He smiled.
"Trouble, hopefully."

"Only you would say such a thing."
Brasham shook his head.
"Through you go."

Grabbing Ingrid’s hand, Byrnes tucked it in the crook of his arm and escorted her through.
Ava and Charlie followed, Ava lugging her precious carpetbag along with her.

"Keep your mind on the job," he told Ingrid as the gates shut behind them.
"Copeland doesn't deserve your games."

That earned him an arched brow.
"Who said they were games?
He has pretty eyes.
And
you're
the one that insisted that I play your partner.
If you cannot handle it, Byrnes, then do be a dear and speak up."

He was going to throttle her.
Slowly.
Or maybe kiss her.
He hadn't quite decided.

"This way."
Ingrid swept under his arm and headed across the grass, shooting him a knowing glance as she went.
"Some of us want to see the scene of the crime."

The Venetian Gardens had been crafted for pleasure.
Both upper and lower classes could buy their ticket in, and there were often fireworks, acrobatic shows, and pavilions where parties could be hosted.
Broad canals crisscrossed the sprawling gardens and white lacquered gondolas sat in a row at the boarding docks, bobbing up and down in the breeze as they waited for night to fall and passengers to come.

"Which way is the Grand Pavilion?"
Byrnes asked.

"You've never been to the Venetian Gardens?"
Charlie Todd seemed surprised.

"Not really my sort of affair," Byrnes replied.

"He's more interested in gambling dens than in garden parties," Ava added, with a
tsk
of disapproval under her breath.

"Oh, but this place is so much more than that.
This way," Charlie called, heading toward a huge pavilion that was circled by Georgian pillars.
It dominated the grassy space, and french doors opened on all sides to reveal the room within.

"Anyone approaching the pavilion should have been seen," Byrnes noted.

"It was dark," Charlie replied, raking the roofline.
He pointed.
"If I were going to enter unseen, I'd use those trees for cover, then climb them to get to the roof."

"That doesn’t negate the fact that the grass surrounding it provides inadequate coverage," Byrnes shot back.
Bad enough working with Ingrid, let alone all three of them.

"Let me look inside," Charlie replied.
"There's got to be a way that someone got in and out—with all the guests—without being seen by the staff."

"If Carrington was an earl, then there's high chance he was a blue blood," Byrnes said, looking around.
Not every single member of the Echelon had been infected with the craving virus that had once been considered an elite privilege, but most of the upper nobility were.
Or the males, at least.
Females were considered too prone to hysteria and overruling passions to be able to control themselves should they suffer from the bloodlust.
Accidents happened, of course, and there were both rogue blue bloods like himself, whose existence hadn't been sanctioned, and a handful of female blue bloods.

"He
was
a blue blood," Ava said, flipping through her notes.
"It was in the earlier report at Malloryn's."

A man fidgeted by the entrance to the pavilion, his stained fingers holding a half-smoked cigarette, though his glazed eyes stared at nothing.

Byrnes held out his hand.
"Caleb Byrnes, Nighthawk."

"Silas Compton," the fellow greeted, "I'm the manager of the Venetian Gardens."

"We'll leave you to it," Ingrid murmured, taking Charlie and Ava inside with her.

Byrnes watched them go.
"You're the one who found the earl and his guests missing?"

"Aye."
Compton ground his cigarette out among the stubby corpses of several other half-finished blunts.
Though his clothes were distinctly upper class, his hair was rumpled and signs of disorder streaked through, with his crooked tie and an inch of shirt that hung loose at his waist.

Clearly bothered by the ordeal.

Byrnes flipped open his notebook, filing that away for future notice.
"Do we know how many guests were in attendance?"

"Got the register from the gates," Compton announced.
"Thirty-two of them remained at this late hour, sir.
Including the Earl.
Plus there were eight attendants from the Venetian Gardens, taking away the food platters and the glasses."

"So forty people are missing altogether?"
Byrnes glanced up from the notes he was writing.
"Sounds like a small private party for an earl."

"Birthday party, by all accounts.
Carrington's pockets are shallow, according to gossip."
Compton shrugged.
"Been hit hard by the Revolution and the new laws."

"I would have thought the Pavilion to be expensive to hire."

"It is.
Not as bad as some, but appearances have to be kept, sir."

"So Carrington was trying to balance the party between affordable, but stylish enough to pretend he didn’t care about that sort of thing.
Minimal guests, not a lot of food and drinks, that sort of thing?"

"Aye."

Byrnes looked around.
"You saw nothing?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Compton replied.
"And I've been racking my brain, sir.
The doors were open and guests trickled out to watch the fireworks, then they went back inside.
By the time I came around to alert everyone to dawn's imminent arrival, the doors were locked and nobody was there.
Nothing but...
a trace amount of blood, though that could have been from their own private flasks.
The only person I saw leave was a beautiful woman who exited the party ten minutes before I came.
I only noticed her because I was overseeing the arrival of crates of blud-wein at the time."

"Can you describe her?"

"Dressed in white, I think.
Pale hair.
Blonde, perhaps?
I didn't take much notice, sorry sir.
We were running short of blud-wein, so I was attempting to sort out that mess."

"And you didn't hear anything?"
Byrnes paused with his pen pressed against his notebook.

"Nothing, but then that might have been the fireworks.
There was also another party over the eastern side, and the gondolas were busy with other guests."

Byrnes assessed his notes.
"If you think of anything else, let me know," he said, handing the fellow his card.

Then he was free to enter the pavilion.

The room was eerily silent.
A table by the wall held a row of champagne glasses stacked in a pyramid, and champagne lay flatly in the glasses.
Ice buckets still held half-drunk bottles of blud-wein, judging by the coppery scent of it.
There'd been an automaton orchestra in the corner, but they'd long since wound down, the automata caught in frozen tableaux over their instruments.
Their glass eyes made him shudder.
They alone might have been witness to whatever had happened in here, but nobody would ever know what they'd seen.

"Over here, Byrnes," Ava called.

The three of them were gathered in the northern corner.
Someone had painted a bloody “0” on the gauzy curtains that surrounded the room.
There were several blood spatters on the marble floors, but no other signs of a skirmish.

"Do you think that's some kind of symbol of ownership?"
Ingrid asked, staring at it.

"Possibly."
Every now and then he and the Nighthawks worked a case that was clearly committed by the same person.
They all tended to have their signature tricks.
Byrnes frowned, running his finger through the blood and then rubbing his fingers together.
"It's tacky in some areas, but mostly dry."

"Not fresh then," Charlie said, his nostrils flaring and his eyes darkening to a bottomless black before he turned away from the curtains and forced the
hunger
back down.

The
hunger
had never overruled him before, but Byrnes knew that other blue bloods sometimes struggled with its grip.
"Is it going to be a problem?"
he asked quietly, and Charlie shot him a sideways look before shaking it off.

"No time for dinner this morning," he muttered, his hand delving inside his pocket for a flask of blood.
"That's all."

"So we have forty people who are missing," Byrnes commented, looking around.
"And an empty room, with minimum signs of a struggle.
How did forty people just vanish?
That's what we need to know."

"Through the roof?"
Ingrid suggested dubiously.

"People would have seen them leaving," he pointed out, then looked around.

"Underground.
It had to be through a tunnel.
Perhaps there's an entrance to Undertown here," Charlie suggested.

"Perhaps."
Byrnes shoved a table out of the way.
Nothing beneath it.
"Undertown was formed where the Eastern link of the Underground project collapsed.
That's a long way from here."

Charlie grinned at him.
"You think like a Nighthawk, Byrnes.
I'm a thief from Whitechapel.
There's not a section of London that's inaccessible from below.
There are tunnels, sewers, underground rivers, old plague pits...
It's an entire world down there."

"How do you think we ran the revolution?"
Ingrid snorted, shoving aside a rug.

And he was forced to remember that she'd once been a humanist, one of the founding members of the revolution that tore the prince consort from his throne.