Gemma swallowed and tilted the woman's head
up.
Black blood dripped from her eyes and her
ears. Her skin looked like a thousand small bruises
had erupted, as though her capillaries had burst in
a hundred places.
Gemma staggered backward, trembling badly.
What was the first rule of espionage? Leave
no comrades behind. Sometimes that was due to
the fact that in dangerous cases, you only ever had
each other to watch your backs. The more sinister
reason was so that your enemy couldn't use them
for information.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She spun, the pistol tracking... nothing. There
was nothing there. But as she swallowed, she was
fairly certain that there had been.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
For there was but the faintest scent left behind
in the air, a peculiar sweetness that she'd only
smelled one time before.
In the museum, when someone killed her
attacker.
THIRTY-SIX
THE BLOOD WAS sweet as Byrnes stared out
through the window in Malloryn's study, watching
rain drip down the windows of the new house that
they'd moved to the second the old one became
compromised. Ingrid had sought their bed, but
something was bothering him. A weight upon his
mind.
Now that he had it back.
The door opened and Malloryn strode in,
scraping his wet hair back off his head. The instant
he realized that someone was in the study, his hand
dipped, coming up with a knife.
"It's only me."
Malloryn's hard gaze flattened and he
vanished the knife as swiftly as it had appeared.
"That's an easy way to get yourself killed. All I
saw was your bloody pale hair. I thought it was
one of the... others. What are you doing in here?"
"Waiting for you, actually." Others. Other
dhampir. Byrnes twitched a little. The changes to
his physique were coming swiftly. He'd shaved off
his hair the second the roots of it stared to grow in
silvery, and his eyelashes were already lightening.
His hair was an inch long now, changing his
appearance significantly. Ingrid said it didn't
bother her, but looking in the mirror was like
looking at a different man.
And maybe that wasn't all bad. He no longer
saw his father, at least. Perhaps this could be a
fresh start? A rebirth?
Even if the weight of the hunger remained
constant and his moods more mercurial.
"There's something that bothers me." He
couldn't stop his gaze from sliding to the wrapped
package under Malloryn's arm. "Light reading
before bed, your Grace?"
"The Cremorne diaries," Malloryn said,
holding the book-shaped package aloft. "Ava's
finished with it, now that your treatments are well
on the way." Those mercurial eyes examined
Byrnes. "What is it you wished to speak of?"
"Ulbricht's gone to ground, and Zero is dead,"
he said. "Someone broke into the house and killed
her. And you haven't found them yet."
Malloryn sidled around the desk, looking
thoughtful. "Yes. I'm assuming it was one of her
dhampir brethren. What surprises me is that I
didn't wake up with a slit throat. Or not wake up,
as it were."
"Maybe they're not finished with you yet,"
Byrnes suggested. "Zero said they wanted revenge
upon you for the revolution, and if I were planning
revenge, I wouldn't want it to be too easy. I'd want
you to suffer."
"Remind me not to get on your bad side."
Byrnes smiled. "One could say the same, your
Grace. Though it would be interesting to see who
wins."
Malloryn poured himself a glass of blud-wein
and then topped up Byrnes's. They chinked their
glasses together. "If we went to war against each
other, it would be... bloody. And you're not that
type of man. Neither of us likes disorder, or mess.
And sometimes the mystery of not knowing the
answer is more intriguing than the knowing."
verwulfen breathing down your neck."
"There is that," Malloryn conceded with the
faintest hint of amusement. "So enough games.
What's bothering you?"
"I've had a lot of time to think lately. This
whole thing," Byrnes said, "from the Sons of
Gilead to Zero herself, was merely... puppetry.
Zero's dead, her vampire stable burned, and the
missing people were found, but I don't feel like this
is a victory at all. Ulbricht's still out there
somewhere, with his Rising Sons. There are at
least four other dhampir; this Ghost, Sirius,
Obsidian, and X. It's a mess of threads, but none of
it makes any sense."
"Yes. One would almost think that someone
was pulling all of the strings." Malloryn lifted his
own glass in a kind of wry salute, then tipped the
glass to his lips. "This 'master' that Zero spoke of."
That was when Byrnes realized that Malloryn
didn't look shocked. "You knew."
"I suspected." Malloryn shrugged, and for a
moment looked younger and weary as he stared at
the desk surface, or perhaps beyond it. "It's been
clear to me for a while that someone is
manipulating events."
"Who?"
"If I knew that"—Malloryn's eyebrow quirked
—"then there wouldn't be a Company of Rogues."
"The others have settled on the name then?"
A touch of humor softened that hard mouth.
"They have. Young Todd made an impassioned
debate of it." Malloryn stared at his blud-wein,
then drained what was left of it. "It's the first time
in my life that I've ever been called a 'rogue.'"
"The boy means no offense." Rogue blue
bloods were, after all, the scum of the blue blood
world.
"None taken. I've never truly considered
myself a part of the Echelon, or that world."
No, Malloryn had always been the puppet
master, working behind the scenes for the queen.
"How did you ever form an alliance with Her
Highness? Or why?" He'd been born into a world
where he should have had it all. Why would
Malloryn give a damn about the working classes,
or the way blue bloods had killed and slaughtered
without repercussions?
Malloryn's smile died and his eyes glittered
as he poured himself another drink. "A long story,
Byrnes. And one not commonly shared."
Silence. Byrnes didn't pretend to be affronted,
even though his endless curiosity bit deep. After
all, where was the fun in simply being told the
answer? But that was for another day. Something
Malloryn had said bothered him. "You knew that
someone was behind it all. That's why you set us
on this course. Not to find those people. Not to
hunt Zero or any of the others, b
ut to flush out your
true quarry. After all, you could have used your spy
network, or the Nighthawks. But no...." He thought
it through. "You wanted to set a trap for him—or
her—a challenge. To see if he'd take the bait and
come after us."
Malloryn merely tipped his head to Byrnes.
"If we'd known that," he pointed out, "then we
might have come at the answer quicker. And you
might have gotten some of us killed."
"I ask you to take no risks that I won't take
myself," Malloryn pointed out. "I don't have to be
hands-on here."
Byrnes whistled under his breath. "You are
cold."
Malloryn leaned forward to refill his glass.
"Coming from you, that almost sounds like a
compliment."
"Almost," Byrnes warned. "I have a stake in
this now."
"I don't intend any harm to come to any of the
Rogues. There are plans in place in case the
danger gets out of hand."
"And there's no point in throwing away good
operatives."
Malloryn looked a little unsettled at that. He
tapped his fingers on the desk. "I have to be cold to
survive this world. I learned that in the womb." He
hesitated. "The Rogues' usefulness isn't the only
reason I would prefer you stay alive. Contrary to
"You did try to shoot me in the tunnels below
the asylum. Twice."
"The first time I was protecting Gemma. The
second… well, you were about to try and rip off
my head, I believe."
Touché. Byrnes considered it, then let it go. It
was interesting to come up against a mind quite
like his own. "We're even. But what are you going
to do about this mastermind?"
"Nothing." Malloryn slumped back in his
chair, looking entirely relaxed. "Except watch. And
wait."
"And discover if they will play their hand.
Very good, your Grace. And you say you're not
ruthless."
"'Not that ruthless,' was the precise term I
used."
"Doing nothing might gain you a name in the
end," he pointed out, "but it puts all of us at danger,
and paints a rather large target on our backs. You
might not be pulling the trigger, but you might get
us killed all the same." Leaning forward, he
pointedly set his glass down and stood. "Maybe
that is 'that ruthless.'"
Malloryn toyed with his glass, looking
distant. "Maybe it is." He smiled sadly.
"Sometimes I have a hard time seeing it
anymore. Which means you should keep your
mouth shut, and keep an eye on your fiancée."
"Fiancée?" It was clear he was being
dismissed, but that word still shocked him.
"If Ingrid doesn't belong to you, then she can
be taken," Malloryn said, sleepy-eyed but no less
dangerous. "I assume that's the direction this matter
is taking."
"It is, but not because I'm afraid to lose her.
Not like that." Snagging his hat, Byrnes offered a
respectful nod to the duke. "The others are my
friends too. Ingrid's not the only one who means
something to me. And we should mean something
to you too. The way you're headed.... It's a difficult
thing for a man to stand alone, and it turns you
hard. I should know. I've been there. You need
someone to be your conscience, if nothing else."
"It seems I have you," the duke replied dryly.
"I'm not enough, and Lord knows my sense of
boundaries is not exactly trustworthy sometimes. If
it cannot be one of us—for obvious reasons—then
maybe you should look elsewhere."
"I have someone to warm my bed."
"I'm not just talking about your bed. The
reason Ingrid and I work so well together is
because she's not afraid to tell me the truth
whenever I cross the line." Byrnes crossed slowly
to the door. "Think about it, at least."
"Byrnes"—the duke settled that glittering gaze
on him—"there are more than enough females in
my life trying to tell me what to do."
Sensing that he'd pushed far enough, Byrnes
opened the door and smiled. "You mean Miss
Hamilton?"
Malloryn shook his head. "Go play with
Ingrid. My relationship with Miss Hamilton is
none of your business. And you're starting to sound
like your new romantic entanglements have warped
your brain."
"It's everybody's business," Byrnes countered,
holding onto the doorknob. "Haven't you heard?
This is a company of spies, after all. Gemma's
running a betting pool on whether you're going to
get the bride to the altar, or whether one of you
will cry off first or kill each other."
"Byrnes, you're a menace." Malloryn sounded
disgusted. "And it sounds like none of you are busy
enough. I can fix that."
"You don't even know who I'm backing,"
Byrnes protested.
Something was lobbed at the door—the
crumpled piece of paper off the desk. Byrnes
slammed the door shut just before the paper hit,
laughing to himself as he hurried along the
corridor.
Malloryn had one thing right: going to play
with Ingrid was precisely the destination he had in
mind.
EPILOGUE
Three years after all is said and done...
THE TABLE WAS CROWDED, full of old friends
and new and their offspring. Ingrid sat in the guest
of honor's position with Rosa's youngest son,
Emery, on her lap.
"I hope you had a wonderful birthday," Rosa
said, leaning down to kiss her cheek as Lynch and
Garrett retired to the duke's billiards room to
discuss business. Or more likely, to rest their
eardrums. Perry and Garrett's twin daughters,
Grace and Ivy, had declared war over dessert upon
Phillip, the ducal heir. Baby Emery had joined in
by squealing every time they caught his brother.
Perry went after her children with an
aggrieved expression as the trio took off through
the house.
Thank goodness. The noise had been
overwhelming.
"It's not really my birthday," Ingrid protested.
She couldn't remember which day she'd been born
on, only the month. Rosa had insisted she pick a
day years ago, and so she'd chosen the twelfth of
June. Today.
It still didn't quite feel right though.
"Hush." Rosa's frown scolded her, but her
smile looked far too pleased. She was up to
something. "Just enjoy the day. And now, I do
believe your husband wanted you in the library."
This was accompanied with a slightly arched brow
and a knowing smile as Rosa took young Emery off
her hands. The boy had his mother's eyes, her
personality, and her deviousness, and even though
he was only one, he grinned at Ingrid over her
shoulder as if he were in on th
e conspiracy. "I'll go
rescue Perry."
Ingrid snatched up her glass of dessert wine
and drained it. She enjoyed the revelry—it
reminded her of what she'd missed out on growing
up—but there was definitely a limit to the amount
of hours she could sit through it.
The noise and light died down as she went to
find her husband. He'd vanished sometime during
dessert, but she'd been so distracted that she hadn't
noticed his removal, only his absence.
"Caleb?" she called softly. There was light
limning the door of the library, and the faint
fragrance of roses. With a brief knock, she pushed
inside.
Her husband was pacing in the middle of the
room, carelessly crushing the red rose petals
beneath his boot heels. Byrnes turned at her
entrance, hands clasped behind his back and his
expression arrested. His appearance never failed
to light her up inside. Here was her other half, the
one person in the world who understood her and
her need for independence. She spent most of the
day with him at their leased apartments where they
ran the private detective agency they'd formed a
year ago, but she never grew tired of his presence.
One look at the rose petals crushed all over
the floor and the champagne bottle in its ice bath,
and she arched a brow. "Rosa?"
His mouth stretched into a smile and Byrnes
cracked the champagne bottle with a pop. Bubbles
frothed over his hand. "You doubt me, darling?"
"I know you," she admitted dryly, crossing the
room to take the glass he handed her. He'd only
ever told her he loved her three times. Byrnes was
never careless with such words, nor was he prone
to romantic notions. Every now and then she
wished he might be a little more romantic, but that
was what made those three little words so
cherished when they came. "Roses and champagne
aren't your style."
He chinked his glass against hers. The smile
faltered. He actually looked nervous for a moment,
then recovered admirably. "Ah, but I'm quite happy
to claim someone else's efforts."
Ingrid enjoyed the first sweetly bitter
mouthful, but she couldn't take her eyes off him.
"You're up to something."
Capturing her fingertips, he drew her into his
arms, setting his glass down on the nearest table.
The swish of her green skirts pressed against his
thighs. "You look beautiful tonight," he told her,
turning serious again.
" And you're trying to distract me."
"You accuse me of being unromantic," he