Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (26 page)

Lightning flickered in the distance, highlighting the darkened entrance.
Ingrid leapt over the body, seeing others in the halls, through the kitchen door....
Above her, noise thumped, and someone cried out in agony.

Upstairs.
The bloody vampire was upstairs.

Moving quickly up the stairs, she caught its scent—that sickly sweet rot.
This one was not as far advanced as the Ulbricht vampire had been.
It had only just begun to stink of rot, not dripping in it like the house party vampire.
That didn't mean anything.
She had nothing to compare it to, as the Ulbricht vampire was the first she'd ever encountered.
Who knew whether it was at the full peak of its speed and abilities, or whether it was only beginning to find its strength?
Vampires weren't precisely a studied phenomenon.
They were rare, and the usual way to deal with them was to exterminate them.

Following the muffled thuds and thumps, Ingrid took stealthy steps forward, one foot placed carefully in front of the other, both of her knives in hand and her heart thundering in her throat.

Right into mayhem.
The creature was sitting at the end of the hall, glutting itself on a body.
Others lay scattered and torn to ragged pieces.
Ingrid froze, realizing it hadn't seen her.
Its face was buried in the ravaged throat of what had once been a servant here, judging by the apron.
Mrs.
Byrnes's door was cracked open just across the hallway, faded sobs coming from within.
Alive then.
Perhaps it had focused on the maidservant in its grip, forgetting the other potential victims in here.
Sometimes they did that, she'd heard.

She slid an inch toward Mrs.
Byrnes's room.

Another inch gained, her heart pounding like it was fit to erupt through the cage of her ribs.
How the hell the creature couldn't hear it was beyond her.
One more step....

The vampire froze.

Ingrid echoed it.

Sniffing, the pallid face lifted like a dog's.
Filmy glaze covered its eyeballs, turning them an eerie calcium blue.
Right.
It was blind.
But it would smell her now, and its blindness would barely slow it down.
She had to remember that.

A fierce, fiery cold began to creep through her veins, along with the faint tremble that preceded a fit of berserk rage.
In the rage, a verwulfen man or woman was almost impossible to cut down.
They barely felt pain or fear, or knew the cost of consequences.
Nothing but brutal mindlessness and strength.

The unfortunate thing was that she was already quite afraid, and what she really needed to be was angry.

"Easy," she whispered, stepping closer to the door.
"Easy there, lad."

Movement flexed in the vampire's hindquarters.

Ingrid twisted, driving the knife up as it launched toward her.
Claws raked the hard carapace of her body armor, cutting through it like it was gauze, and then white-hot agony blistered through her abdomen.
Oh shit.
Ingrid forced herself to complete the blow she'd planned, her knife driving into the creature's eye, even as its teeth clamped down upon her shoulder.
She had it by the throat with her other hand, but there was something there.
A collar?
Electricity zapped through her and she jerked her hand back.

A high-pitched roar of rage ripped from its throat.
Ingrid punched it in the chest, earning a few precious inches.
Rage burned in her blood, her entire body going ice-hot as she threw it away from her.
Then she was through the door into Mrs.
Byrnes's room, slamming it shut—

A weight hammered at the door, almost flinging her across the room.
Turning, she set her back into it, knowing that this was the only barrier that might, just might, keep her alive.
Byrnes's mother was huddled in the corner, her bare feet drawn up beneath her white night-robe.
She stared at Ingrid with a childish expression of fear on her face, rocking slightly before burying her face in her hands.
No help there.

Blood.
Blood everywhere.
On her shirt, on her hands, on her....
She saw the gaping mess of her abdomen, and instantly her body went cold.
Shite.
Her mind refused to deal with it, but the sight of the mess cost her the fury she'd been building.
The
berserkergang
slid from her like a shroud, and Ingrid gasped as all of the pain came rushing back in.

Not now.
Another blow almost broke the door in two.

"Help!"
she screamed.

Claws scraped at the wood, slicing thick gouges of timber off it, she imagined.
Blood.
Pain.
Shocking pain.
Ingrid's vision blurred.
She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move—

The door rocked one more time.
Her legs were about to give out.
Then whistles broke out, high-pitched and stabbing through her ears.
Nighthawks.
She'd never been so glad to hear Nighthawks’ whistles in her life.
A fluting trill of notes sounded in response.
Claws padded away from the door.

"Good boy," someone murmured, and a metallic clip snapped shut.

Ingrid slid to the floor, as footsteps vanished into the depths of the house.
That awful clicking screech of claws on the floorboards echoed it.

Her abdomen was a hot, flaming mess of pain.
God, what had it done to her?
Tingles of heated numbness burned in her midsection, a sure sign that the loupe virus was hard at work.

But at least the bloody vampire was gone.

S
tatic crackled
in Byrnes's ear.
Cursing under his breath, he stepped into the nearest alley and pressed a finger to the button on his communicator.
He'd almost forgotten he was wearing it as he tried to track Ingrid, who'd asked for him, according to Ava.
"Not now, Garrett."

"I've got an emergency at Clerkenwell.
You're the closest Nighthawk—"

"Garrett, I'm busy."
Ingrid wouldn’t have wanted him if she didn’t think she needed him, not after last night.

"Byrnes, it's a slaughter in there."
Garrett's voice was on edge, even through the tinny speaker.
"Sounds like your case."

Byrnes paused.
"A slaughter?"

"One of the nurses escaped and bolted for the nearest Nighthawks garrison.
They sent in a relieving crew, but nobody's answering.
Craigmore went to scope the place out, and he says there are bodies everywhere.
He hasn't been inside yet.
Can see something moving in there, but he's waiting for reinforcements—"

"Where?"
That cold feeling seeping through his veins unnerved him.
No.
Garrett had said Clerkenwell.
That didn't mean anything.
The borough was large.
And there was no guarantee that this slaughter had anything to do with the vampire they were hunting.

"Miss Appleby's Home for the Elderly.
It's on—"

"Grant Street," Byrnes said hollowly, his ears ringing as though all of the blood had drained from his extremities.
His mother.
"I'm on it.
Get me reinforcements as soon as possible."

"
I
s anyone alive in there
?"
Byrnes demanded, frantically searching each window as he stepped out of the shadows behind Craigmore, a Nighthawk he'd worked with in the past.
Mother.
No.
Not this way.
After the life she'd led, she didn't deserve to die this way.

"I don't know, sir.
I haven't seen anyone moving in the last five minutes.
Earlier, yes, but..."

"Did—?"
A hint of scent wafted past his nose, cutting off his next line of questioning.
A scent he knew, musky and all woman.
Nostrils flaring, Byrnes strode toward the building, a new fear rising in his heart.
The scent was stronger here, near the door.

"Ingrid," he whispered, and everything in him went cold.
What the bloody hell was she doing here?
A new fear rose to choke his throat, because if Ingrid was here then she wouldn't hesitate to enter, not when she knew his mother meant so much to him.

Argument or no argument, he felt the darkness rise, the predator inside him just as frantic as he was.
Get to her.
Protect her,
it insisted, locking bloodthirsty claws around him.
The color in his vision vanished and blood pounded through his temples.

This case had already proven that neither of them was invulnerable when it came to vampires.
Jesus
.

"Sir, what are we going to do?"
Craigmore sounded like a frightened little child behind him.

"Stay here," Byrnes replied, clamping down on the hot surge of emotion that threatened to choke him.
"Guard the perimeter and wait for reinforcements.
I'm going in."

B
LOOD HERE
.
Blood there.
The Home was a slaughterhouse.

Jesus Christ.
Byrnes's mouth pooled with saliva, his nostrils flaring as he stepped inside.
The
hunger
surged, sickening him.
The men and women here were familiar.
Not prey.
It was the blood, overwhelming his senses and igniting the predator inside him.

He didn't force it down, however.
He needed the predator.
That was the only way he could imagine coming up against a vampire alone and surviving.

Ingrid
, he whispered to himself, trying to refocus it.
Ingrid needs us.

Above him, something clattered.

Byrnes froze, his gaze rolling toward the ceiling.
Nothing moved.
Only his heart, threatening to pound its way out of his chest.

More sound.
A thud.
Byrnes started for the stairs.
Both pistols were in his hands.
A faint, mocking flute sounded somewhere above, a sound that took him back to Ulbricht's immense gardens.

"Ingrid!"
he called, reaching the top of the stairs.
"Ingrid, where are you?"

Sound echoed behind him, and he spun, pistols rising instantly, only to see a startled cat flee past him.
Byrnes let out the breath he'd been holding and eased both fingers off the triggers.

"Byrnes?"
came a low, feminine cry.

Oh, thank God.
She was still alive, and in his mother's room.

He strode toward it, body alert for the faintest shifts of breeze and shadows.
The door looked like it had faced one of those hedge trimmers that were all the rage at the moment.
Thick gouges marked its heavy surface and curls of timber lay abandoned on the floor beneath it.

"Ingrid?"
he called, sheathing one of the pistols at his belt.
"Is my mother there?"

"She's here."

Byrnes paused.
Ingrid was breathing hard and something about her tone sounded strained.
A faint note of panic crept down his spine.
"Are you all right?"

"A scratch," she croaked.
"I'll heal."

Something about that didn't sit right with him.
"Where's the vampire?"

"Was here.
A minute ago.
Left with...
the woman."

"What woman?"
he demanded.

"The pipe-playing woman.
Ulbricht's mistress, I think."

Her again.
Byrnes looked around, but the house had an abandoned air.
"Craigmore," he said, putting a hand to his ear to activate the communication device.
"It's clear, I believe.
Bring in the medics if they've arrived."

Holstering his second pistol, he tried to open the door, but there was something in front of it.
Giving it a nudge revealed a long lean leg, clad in Ingrid's dark trousers.
The second the door cracked open, the wash of blood stung his senses.

"Jesus Christ."
There was blood seeping down her trousers.
Byrnes pushed harder against the door, his breath catching.
How bad was the wound?
That was a lot of blood.
"Can you move?
Let me in, damn it.
That's not a bloody scratch!"

Ingrid dragged her legs up to her body, then tried to move aside.
And failed.

Shit.
She was hurt.
Badly.

Byrnes nudged the door open just enough to slip through.
His mother rocked in the corner, but there was no blood on her, and though she looked terrified, she wasn't wounded.
Ingrid was.
It was a simple matter to prioritize.
Simple to—

That was when he saw the damage.

Time seemed to freeze as his focus narrowed down to her.
"Let me see.
Ingrid, let me have a look."

Ingrid's hands were pressed against her abdomen, painfully pale against the mess of blood, and...
other.
Wide bronze eyes looked up, startlingly vulnerable, as he settled at her side.
She was never vulnerable.
It scared the piss out of him.
"I-I can't."

"You're not going to bleed out."
The skin was torn, a great, gaping wound.
He didn't even know where to start.
What to do.
Reaching up, he pressed the comm at his ear.
"Craigmore?"
The word came out half-hysterical.

"Sir?"
Came the static-crackled reply.

"Is Dr.
Gibson out there yet?"

"Just arrived, sir."

"Send him up immediately.
Room fourteen.
I've got someone here who needs stitching and bandaging.
She's bleeding badly.
I don't....
Hell, just tell him to bring his entire kit."

"Will do, sir."

Byrnes shrugged out of his jacket, scrunching it into a pillow and pressing it behind her head as he laid her down.
"Are you cold?
Does it hurt?"

"Hot, actually."
She was starting to shake now, her teeth forming an indentation in that plump lower lip.
"Byrnes—"

"Hot?"
A hand cupped to her forehead revealed the truth; blisteringly hot.
He jerked his hand back in surprise before realizing.
The loupe.

A hand caught his, wet with blood.
Ingrid gasped for breath, as if she’d been running.

"Ingrid, can you breathe?"
Panic lit through him like a struck match.
He didn't know what to do.
All of his medic training evaporated like smoke in his brain.
Normal people didn't recover from wounds like this, but if she were a blue blood he wouldn't have been worried.

Don't be a fool.
She's verwulfen.
Nothing can take verwulfen down.

Except a vampire
, came that little whisper.

Christ, what could she survive?
The color of her skin scared the hell out of him, and the way she was panting.

"N-normal," she managed, grinding the word out between gritted teeth.
Sweat darkened her hair.
"Burning up...
normal.
B-breathing...
like this.
I'll fall asleep soon.
Hard to...
wake."

That eased his fear.
Normal.
This was normal.
"Can you survive this?"

She managed to nod.
I can
.

"Good."
Byrnes grabbed the sheet off his mother's bed and wadded it, pressing down over her abdomen to slow the bleeding.

Then he finally lost it.

"Why?"
It was a hoarse demand.
"Why the hell would you have entered this bloody place, knowing there was a vampire on the loose?
Knowing you were alone?
Why, damn it?"

"Your m-mother...."

Not his mother.
She had done this for him.
To save someone he held precious.
Emotion knotted up in his throat, burning hot and heavy.
For a second Byrnes was afraid it would spill out of him, that he wouldn't be able to choke it down.

"Don't you do this again," he snapped.
"Promise me."

Ingrid looked startled.
"I t-thought you...
didn't care."

"I never said I didn't care," he snarled, pressing his forehead against hers so that he wouldn't have to look her in the eye.
"Promise me you won't ever go off alone like this again."

"P-promise."

His hands were shaking too.
"I could wring your bloody neck.
You could have been killed."

"Byrnes," she whispered, weakly stroking his hand.
"Caleb?"

That lump in his throat felt like a fist now.

"I'm all right," she said, watching him with wide, startled eyes.

He was shaking so violently he didn't know what was wrong with him.
"You are
not
bloody all right—"

"Byrnes?"
A sharp rap came at the door.
Gibson.
Thank God.
"Am I right to enter?"

Byrnes yanked the door open.

I
n the medic van
, Byrnes sat with Ingrid curled in his arms, wrapped in a blanket.
Gibson had stitched her wounds closed and bandaged them, but Byrnes didn't have it in him to set her aside.
Seeing Ingrid fade into a healing sleep as the loupe fired through her blood made every dark instinct within him rise.

"My mother?"
he managed to ask.

"Garrett's got her," Gibson replied, watching him carefully.
"He's taking her to the guild and making sure she's all right.
He said to do what you need to; he's got your mother for now."

Byrnes relaxed an inch.
He hadn't even noticed the guild master in the chaos, but there was no one else he'd trust with his mother's care.
She'd been frightened and still rocking in the corner by the time Gibson had managed to sew Ingrid up, but she hadn't been injured.

Not like Ingrid.

"Like that, is it, lad?"
Gibson reached inside his coat, tugging out a flask and handing it over.

Byrnes stared at it hollowly.
"No.
It's...
not.
It's—" He didn't know what it was.
Or perhaps he had the slightest suspicion....
After all, he
had
run into a vampire-infested building after her, the very same idiocy that he'd accused her of.
Not a moment of hesitation had afflicted him.
All he'd known was that he had to get to her before something bad happened.

"Take a drink, boy.
She'll steady your nerves."

"I don't
have
nerves," he replied flatly, though he took the flask.

Gibson merely looked amused.
"Of course not."

Bloody rotting bastard.
Gibson knew him too well.
Better perhaps than he himself did, for he hadn't realized how he felt until this moment.
Garrett was going to laugh himself silly.
Of all the things to happen, falling for a stubborn verwulfen lass was the last thing Byrnes had expected.

But fall he had.
The truth was unexpected, but how could he fight it?
He felt like he wanted to squeeze her unconscious body against his chest, as if afraid she'd somehow be taken from him.
That moment...
the moment he smelled her scent and realized that she'd gone in there, alone....

Cold rushed through his body, as if he relived it.
Byrnes took a swig and choked as whiskey burned down his throat.
By the time he handed it back, Gibson merely looked old and tired.

"Not much for me to do there, lad.
A bloody shame."
Gibson upended the flask himself.
"So many bodies."

"I thought she was going to be one of them."

Gibson made a clicking noise in his cheek.
"Never had much to do with her type before, but by the look of it, she'll heal.
You can't dwell on 'thought.'
She's here now, and she'll be whole and hearty in no time."

Byrnes merely grunted.
When he looked down, he found Ingrid's face tucked against his chest, her cheeks flushed with red, and the fingers of her right hand curled in his shirt collar as if she hadn't wanted to let go.

Realization was dawning upon him like a sun blazing over the horizon.
This woman was precious to him.
She was the strongest, toughest woman he'd ever met, but seeing her like this gouged out a piece of him inside.

He couldn't fight the truth anymore: Her smiles made him smile.

Her pain made an awful knot twist in his stomach.

Her anger and fear made him feel protective.

It was a textbook case of a blue blood claiming.
Garrett had been just as irrational.
Even Lynch had played the bloody fool, following around on Rosa's heels, and Byrnes hadn't understood then.
He'd mocked the both of them, not even realizing how helpless one was against this emotion.