Chittering noises came from within, as the locator
tracked the beacon that Gemma had planted on the
Duke of Sunderland.
"That way," Charlie murmured, and then took
off, skating down mist-slick tiles then leaping to
another row of rooftops.
With a grin at Ingrid, Byrnes launched himself
after Charlie until it became almost a breathless
race for the three of them.
Charlie paused in the shadows of a chimney,
then pointed across the street to an enormous
domed building that looked abandoned. “There.”
“What is it?” Ingrid murmured.
The streets were silent, and someone had
blacked out the nearby gas lamps. A pair of
shadows shifted at the edge of the square. Byrnes
frowned. “I’m not certain. But I can see lights
within, and there are guards.”
“Check it out?” Ingrid asked. “The beacon
seems to think this is it.”
Byrnes nodded, and they took off again,
crossing rooftops until they could scale the walls
of the seven-story building.
The enormous glass dome on the top of the
building gleamed in the moonlight. Byrnes caught
himself on a baroque pillar and peered through the
dirty windows. Light glimmered below: a half
dozen candles flickering as several people carried
them in a slow circle.
"Think we can get closer?" Ingrid whispered
in his ear.
Too many guards below. Albeit ones that
were trying—badly—to blend into the shadows.
"Got that harness?" he asked Charlie.
Whipping off the leather satchel he'd been
wearing over his back, Charlie withdrew a pair of
harnesses with various ropes and a winch device.
The young man seemed to be prepared for
anything. "Only got two.”
The three of them looked at each other, and
Charlie held his fist out. "Paper. Scissors. Stone."
The game was currently popular in certain
areas of London, hailing from the Far East. Byrnes
looked at Ingrid, then shrugged. They all held their
fists out silently, Charlie ticking out the count of
three with the fingers on his spare hand.
Ingrid lost, a soundless curse whispering from
her lips. Then she turned without argument to set
up the winch with Charlie, while Byrnes strapped
himself into the harness.
When they were done, Byrnes cracked the
seal on the nearest glass pane with his knife.
Moving carefully, he opened the window to its full
potential before slipping through the opening to the
ledge beneath. Dust marked his fingers and a
startled pigeon took one look at him before
launching into space with thunderous affront.
Byrnes pressed his back to the wall as he froze,
prepared at any moment for the hue and cry below.
None came.
Then Ingrid peered down at him, pressing a
finger to her lips.
It wasn't as though I knew the bloody bird
was there, he told her with his expression.
To which she rolled her eyes. Of course she'd
have known, if it were her.
Charlie slipped in beside him, and the pair of
them turned around, resting their boot heels on the
ledge and leaning their weight out over space.
Below bobbed those flickering lights as the
members of the SOG trooped down into the
bowels of what appeared to be some sort of
Roman-style theatre.
With a grin, Charlie leapt back into
nothingness, a shadow that spiraled downwards,
completely at ease with the fall. Byrnes glanced
down, saw the endless darkness behind his boot
heels, and suffered a moment where he nearly
climbed right back out of there.
Ingrid clicked the winch out one inch, and his
arms windmilled, before realizing he wasn't going
any further.
Her eyebrow lifted. Are you going? Or not
going?
Byrnes's gloved knuckles were tight around
the rope. But he wasn't going to back out now, with
both of them watching. Giving her a tight nod, he
took a step back, and Ingrid let the winch out as the
Jesus Christ.
The harness cut into parts unmentionable as
his full weight tested its range. His fist wrapped
around the cable, body swinging helplessly as
Charlie silently laughed at him. Byrnes managed to
return the sentiment, though his smile was
somewhat tighter, with more teeth in it. He was
also fairly certain he was going to choke on his
heart.
Ingrid silently wound them down, with
Charlie leaning back, peering at the world upside
down without a care in the world. Byrnes endured.
Those candles were growing closer. He could
make out shapes now. Dozens of them, wearing
dark-colored robes, with pale faces— No, not
faces. Masks. Silver masks, with empty black
holes for the eye sockets, and sewn-up lips.
Charlie flicked his fingers to catch Byrnes's
attention. He didn't need to hear the words to know
what the lad wanted. Down. Closer. Needed to
hear what the masked men were saying.
Pointing a small crossbow-shaped device at a
nearby column, Charlie silently shot a grappling
hook up onto the spiral staircase, and used it to
haul himself onto the railing, then to help Byrnes
get closer. They both unhooked themselves from
the main line before creeping closer to the main
theatre in the grotto below.
Huge stone statues of Roman-style gladiators
circled the small stage below. It was like no other
theatre he'd ever seen, and the main stage was
circled by stone seats. What on earth had this place
once been?
"Gentlemen!" someone called, standing on the
dais at the far end with a staff, which he thumped
into the dusty floor thrice. "Shall we begin?"
"Begin," chorused several dozen voices.
Byrnes crouched above it all, at the last spiral
of the staircase, his back pressed into the head of
one of the gladiators as he swiftly counted. There
were forty-seven figures below.
And one of them was the Duke of Sunderland.
He swept his hood back, revealing his silvery
muttonchops as he surveyed the gathering. "Come
out, Ulbricht, you rotten cur. Come out and show
your face. It's time to vote on who shall lead the
SOG."
Laughter echoed through the circular chamber,
strangely hollow. Byrnes jumped, though there was
no sign of anyone nearby. Every man below began
to shift uncomfortably.
"Who said we came here to vote?" Ulbricht's
voice echoed through the room. "I said the Sons of
Gilead needed a new master, and that this would
be settled here tonight. I never said there'd be a
vote."
The circular pit in the center of the room
began to crack in the middl
e as both edges of the
floor drew apart. One of the robed figures slipped
through the crack and vanished with a howl that
soon turned to a scream. Then all of the robed blue
bloods began scrambling for the edges of the
sunken stage as Byrnes finally got a good look at
what was going on.
Not a stage. Nor an auditorium. A fighting pit,
elegantly decked out for the elite to sit and watch
their favorite sport, which had no doubt been
closed shortly after the revolution, when pit
fighting was outlawed. Thank God Ingrid wasn't
here, for this was a place where her kind had been
unleashed onto the sand below the retractable
wooden floor to kill and maim each other for blue
bloods to enjoy. For a moment he felt sick as the
floors opened up, and then the blood drained from
his face as he saw what was waiting within the
fighting pit.
Another blue blood fell onto sands wet with
dark blood as a pair of chained vampires launched
themselves upon him and tore him apart as they'd
clearly done to the first poor bastard.
"Ulbricht!" Sunderland howled, turning to
look for a way out.
Others screamed as the floors kept parting,
pushing their way to the edges of the sunken pit. A
dozen men robed in scarlet appeared from doors
hidden by the seating and stopped at the edge,
pushing the terrified horde back down when they
sought to escape. One of them kicked a blue blood
in the face and he slammed back into his brethren,
crushing them as he fell. Three of them vanished
over the lip of the floor into the pit.
"Ulbricht! Mercy!" Sunderland screamed as
he pressed against the walls, watching the floor
vanish beneath his feet. "Mercy!"
The tableau ground to a halt as the floor
stopped retracting, barely a foot from the stone
walls.
"Mercy?" The word echoed through the room.
Heads turned as people tried to see who had said
it, and then a man in a shockingly scarlet robe
appeared out of nowhere at the top of the stands.
At his side was a woman gowned in charcoal gray,
wearing a leashed vampire at her wrist.
Byrnes ducked out of sight with a flinch as
Charlie did the same. Nobody had seen them yet,
but who knew how well a vampire could smell?
Neither he nor Charlie had a personal scent, but
Ingrid's musky perfume would be on him.
"To those of you who joined the SOG thinking
that you wished a return to the good old days, then
I welcome you to my ranks. But know that it comes
with a price. The SOG are going to take London
back from that bitch queen and her cohorts! If
you're with me, then be prepared for war and
climb out of the pit. If not...."
Byrnes risked a look. Over a dozen bleating
blue bloods scrambled out of the pit. Three
remained by Sunderland, glaring mutinously at
Ulbricht. Byrnes sank back down . War? He
exchanged a glance with Charlie. That sounded
ominous. But what precisely were they planning?
Gemma thought Ulbricht was planning something
with explosives, but there’d been no sign of that
yet.
"You turncoat!" Sunderland screamed.
"As for you...," Ulbricht said, and then the
grinding noise continued as the floors evidently
kept retreating.
Sunderland's scream cut off abruptly, and then
a pair of growls choked the noise off. Byrnes
swallowed. Hard. This was a slaughter, not a duel,
and a part of that sat wrongly with him, but spoke
to everything the Echelon believed itself to be.
Entitled
pasty-faced
bastards
who
thought
themselves beyond the law.
Charlie pointed up, and Byrnes nodded. Time
to get out of here. They both scrambled into a low
run, heading for the exit. They'd seen enough, and it
wasn't as though Ulbricht was going to reveal more
of his plan right now. At least they knew something
was coming, and that the Rising Sons—this
mysterious behind-the-scenes group—had taken
control of the SOG.
"Hey! What are you doing here?" A figure in a
red robe stepped out of one of the tunnels that
branched off the spiral staircase. Byrnes barreled
through him, slamming his shoulder directly into
the fellow's chest, and tripping over him as he fell.
Damn it.
"Someone's here!" the woman at Ulbricht's
side called.
Ulbricht lifted a pistol and a shot rang out.
Stone chipped off one of the columns as Byrnes
ducked, then a second shot scored hot fire through
his upper arm.
"Kill them!" Ulbricht yelled.
Another pistol echoed. Charlie ducked and
wove, with Byrnes hot on his heels. They both slid
to the marble floor, using the protection of the
stone railing as gunshots ricocheted above them.
Byrnes clapped a hand to his upper arm. Blood
wet his fingers.
Charlie covered his head with his arms. "At
least they're only shooting at us! It could be
worse."
After all, there were vampires below. "Don't
speak too soon." The room fell ominously silent. A
faint fluting trill echoed up through the central core
of the spiral, a sound that chilled his spine. "Run!"
he snapped to Charlie, shoving the lad to his feet.
Then they were both sprinting up the curved
stairs.
A blur of maggot-white shot into view behind
him as he circled upwards.
Byrnes shoved Charlie in the back and
launched after him, fists pumping at his sides as he
sprinted for the rail that they'd climbed over. The
ropes still hung there. He snatched a glance over
his shoulder as they reached the edge of the spiral
staircase, and saw that rocketing white blur hot on
his heels. Byrnes ran faster, leaping up onto the
railing and then launching his body out into air,
reaching desperately for the rope.
The second he caught it, momentum carried
him forward as a whisper of movement swept past
his boots. A high-pitched scream of thwarted rage
echoed up as the vampire fell below, vanishing
into the circular depths of the tower. It landed on
the bloodied floor of the pit and scrambled to its
feet to stare up at him like a cat watching a ribbon
dangle above it.
"So a fall won’t kill it." Byrnes swung back
the way he'd come, glancing behind to make sure it
had only been one vampire. He yanked hard on the
harness to signal Ingrid to haul them up, the bullet
wound ripping through his shoulder as though the
movement tore his battered flesh further.
"That was close," Charlie breathed hoarsely
as the harnesses began to retract, dragging them
higher.
"Closer than comfortable," Byrnes a
greed, his
heartbeat still racing. A figure was forming in the
shadows, a hooded blue blood stepping to the edge
of the rail he and Charlie had just vacated.
"We meet again," the woman called, turning
her face up to the moonlight as her hood fell back
just enough to reveal a smooth oval face framed by
silvery hair. She watched as he and Charlie jerked
higher.
Ulbricht's mistress.
And she was smiling faintly at him as if his
appearance here pleased her.
SEVENTEEN
"HERE," INGRID SAID, handing him a flask as
she pushed him back onto the bed in his room at
Baker Street. "Drink this."
Blood. Byrnes set the flask to his mouth as
she sat beside him. Charlie had driven them home
from the pits, taken one look at the murderous
expression on Ingrid's face, and said he'd tell
Malloryn what they'd seen. Byrnes hadn't had a
reason to argue. His arm hurt, despite the raging
chill of the craving virus, and he was fairly certain
that the bullet was still inside him.
Besides, he wasn't going to argue with her
either. Not in this mood.
"What are you doing?" he asked. Ingrid tugged
open his coat, unbuttoning it with crisp fingers.
Then he realized. "It's just a scratch, Miller."
"I'll be the judge of that," she replied, pushing
his coat off his shoulder and then gently touching
the bloodied sleeve of his shirt.
Everything about her expression changed. He
didn't have an answer for what he saw on her face.
Stricken? Perhaps stricken came closest. "The
wound's healed around the bullet," she said. "I'm
going to have to cut it out."
"Then do it." Feeling somewhat adrift, Byrnes
tilted his shoulder toward her. Was this what had
her so upset? The fact that he was injured? It didn't
make any sense, as she knew he was a blue blood.
"I've had worse."
“I’m certain you have.”
“This is—”
“Byrnes. Please be quiet.”
She was frighteningly proficient as she
wielded the scalpel with a skill and grace that told
him she'd done this before. Byrnes ground his teeth
together as he breathed through the extraction. The
bullet pinged as it landed in the tray.
It was as she cleaned the wound that her
hesitancy came through. Byrnes watched her
expressive face the entire time. When was the last
time that someone had tended to him like this? He
honestly couldn't remember. Perhaps his mother,
bracing skinned knees. Or pressing cold meat to