To Catch a Rogue

The Blue Blood Conspiracy, Book 4

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CHAPTER ONE

 

            Stealing from the blue bloods of the Echelon always gave Lark Rathinger a sense of fulfillment.

            But stealing from the Russian diplomat sent to negotiate an alliance between the aristocratic Echelon and the Crimson Court satisfied a deeper, darker part of herself she hadn't quite managed to subdue.

            Vengeance.

            Slipping out of the upper window of an elegant mansion in Belgravia, Lark cocked her head to listen to the strains of the waltz seeping from the ballroom below. There was no hue and cry; only laughter, smug refrains, the swish of fabric, and the clink of fine crystal.

            Perfect.

            But no point pushing her luck.

            Reaching inside her elegant long-tailed coat, she withdrew the grappling hook from the inner pocket of her waistcoat and flung it into the gutter above.

            Two seconds later, she was on the rooftop. Kicking off the oversized Hessians she'd stolen from one of the footmen, she tugged her thin rubber-soled boots on. The powdered wig went next, sailing like a scalped Pomeranian dog down the next chimney she passed. Lark was flying across the rooftop like a circus performer, at ease here in a way she often wasn't in the streets below.

            Below her, the London residence of Count Mikhail Golorukov glittered with light and laughter. She wasn't worried about someone finding the safe in his study tampered with, its contents missing. No, Golorukov was more interested in his mistress.

            But the guards in the garden were another matter.

            Golorukov had brought them all the way from Russia, and while she doubted they bore the marque du sangof a tiered member of the Blood tattooed on their backs, she was fairly certain they were all infected with the craving virus.

            A blue blood—like herself—had better hearing and eyesight than a regular human. They were faster, stronger and owned exceptional capabilities, even if the bloodthirsty craving constantly beckoned and the idea of going about in the daylight gave one a headache.

            But the Russians made the English blue bloods look like lost little lambs.

            She couldn't afford to be caught by one of the guards, especially if they were Imperial Ravens. Ravens were both afflicted with the craving virus and given bio-mech enhancements in the military's laboratories until they were barely recognizable as human anymore. They'd kill her on sight, and were most likely dangerous enough to do it easily.

            Lark paused at the edge of the rooftop, slinking into stillness like a watchful gargoyle. Only her pulse shivered through her as she observed one of the guards making his rotation through the gardens below. Golorukov had very inconveniently placed lanterns throughout the trees. There were shadows aplenty, but not the true darkness she preferred to hide within.

            Thirty seconds between guards. She'd spent half the night watching them before she’d made her move to break in.

            Lark held her breath and waited.

            Sure enough, there was the next one, moving with a dangerous grace. No sign of a single weapon upon him—he wore a similar livery to the one she'd “borrowed” from one of Golorukov's footmen—but that didn't mean he wasn't armed.

            The second he was out of sight, she took a running leap and soared through the air toward the nearest tree—a good twenty feet away.

            A squirrel started chattering angrily at her, disturbed from its sleep. Shit. The last thing she needed was to draw the attention of a guard. She'd meant to wait here until the next rotation passed, but there was no time now.

            Lark made a mad dash along the thick branch of the oak and hopped across to the top of the garden wall.

            Then she was gone.

            Vanishing into the night, her heartbeat pounding a ragged tattoo in her ears as she listened intently for signs of pursuit. 

            None came.

            And Lark smiled to herself as she made her way across several rooftops to the rendezvous point where her scout was waiting.

            Except Foley wasn't at the spot they'd agreed upon; instead a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other.

            Lark froze. There was a second where she started scanning for an immediate escape route, and then she recognized the faint arch of his brow as he stared back at her. On anyone else, the pose would have looked like a slouch, but there was just enough arrogance to the tilt of the stranger's chin to make it look deceptively casual.

            The bane of her existence.

            “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. “I thought you were a bloody Nighthawk for a second—or one of Golorukov's Ravens!”

            First rule of thieves code: Don't scare the piss out of your fellow cross-coves.

            “I made sure you'd see me.”

            Seven months, two weeks, and three days since she'd seen him last, and yet her stupid heart kicked into gear like one of those velococycles that were becoming all the rage in the streets.

            Charlie Todd always had that effect upon her.

            “Good thing I wasn't nervous. Not like I'm halfway through a bloody high-stakes job and might be inclined to stick a knife in people I don't expect.”

            “Why Lark,” Charlie mocked. “It's lovely to see you too. You're looking well. Exceptionally smashing in…. Did you steal a footman's outfit, or have you taken to honest labor all of a sudden?”

            “What d’you want?” She couldn't play this game. Not right now. “What did you do to Foley?”

            “Sent him home.” Charlie pushed off the wall, his hands still nonchalantly in his pockets.

            As if hisheart wasn't racing, nor the blood rushing through hisveins at the sight of her. It probably wasn't. This affliction was one only she seemed to suffer.

            “You had no right to do that.” Lark started stripping out of the fancy embroidered coat she'd stolen. The golden frogging down the front was far too visible in the night.

            She tossed it aside, the froth of her borrowed cravat tickling her chin.

            Charlie watched her with glittering eyes. “Why the hell are you breaking into the house of a Russian diplomat? I thought Blade taught you better than that.”

            He had.

            When the Devil of Whitechapel had taken her in as a young girl, he'd taught her everything she needed to know to survive the cutthroat world of the London East End. She'd started out as a dipper under Blade's supervision, until he was assured she wouldn't mistakenly pick the pocket of the wrong gull. When it became clear she had a gift for tumbling locks, he'd moved her up to housebreaking, and soon she'd become the best cracksman in the gang.

            The secret of success was to always pick the right mark. You didn't take from those as couldn't afford it. And you had to be careful with the aristocrats.

            Blue blood lords dripped gold and farted perfume, but you couldn't forget they weren't human. Meddling with the Echelon was dangerous, and Blade always warned against it.

            Rich merchants and bankers were easier pickings.

            Not as many guards as an aristocrat, and less likely to tear your throat out and drink your blood.

            But Golorukov had been practically irresistible to her the second she overheard someone speaking of him.

            “Call it a whim,” Lark finally replied, dragging the pins out of her coiffure. Her scalp ached, and she raked her nails through her hair, scattering it and easing the pain. It tumbled down her back in heavy waves.

            Charlie's gaze followed it. “Messing with the cream is dangerous.”

            Lark gasped. “Are you certain? I had no idea.”

            The smallest of muscles in his jaw pulsed.

            “Oh, this is rich,” she said. “You, lecturing me about leaping headfirst into danger. Do you think I didn't plan this? I weighed all the risks before I made this attempt. I've spent most of the week surveying the bloody house and working out the best way to get in and out. I deemed the risk acceptable and took precautions. Some of us like to think before we take action.”

            And if it wasn't for that cursed squirrel the job would have been flawless, but how could you account for that?

            Frustration poured off him. “Any chance we can skip the usual pleasantries?”

            “Any chance you can vanish into the night so I can pretend we never saw each other?”

            Charlie's head half-turned.

            “Oh, that's right. You're the one—”

            “Lark!” He drove toward her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a pistol muzzle flash with fire.

            Lark's back slammed into the tiles of the roof, Charlie's entire weight crashing down upon her, and then they were sliding.

            She twisted like a cat as they hit the edge of the roof. Lark snatched out, catching hold of the gutter as she went over it.

            Not enough to haul herself back up, but she caught a glimpse of the window ledge below the gable, and swung herself onto it.

            Charlie was two seconds behind her, one of his boots landing clumsily between hers.

            There wasn't enough ledge for the both of them. She had to grab his collar and haul him closer, which left her with her nose buried in his shirt.

            A mistake, in hindsight, for every inch of her was pressed against every inch of him. Hard thighs indented her own, and she was suddenly, desperately aware it had been over three years since he'd touched her.

            He'd been still on the verge of boyhood then, tall and gangly.

            He wasn't a boy now. Not at all.

            And all the old, complicated feelings rose in her chest until she feared she'd choke on them. How was she supposed to pretend she wanted nothing to do with him when she desperately wanted to stroke her hands up the hard planes of his chest and discover just what else had changed in all those years? Breathing became dangerous. Even the ragged thrust of her heartbeat pressed her far too precariously against him.

            “I only saw one,” Charlie whispered, pressing her against the window as he peered up. 

            She was clearly the only one stunned by the press of flesh against flesh. Lark mentally punched herself in the face.

            “One of Golorukov's guards must have followed me,” she whispered.

            And she'd been too busy arguing with Charlie to pay attention.

            That was a foolish, novice mistake.

            The kind she'd chided others over.

            “Oh, I weighed all the risks, Charlie,” he breathed in her ear, mimicking her. “Some of us like to think before we take action.

            Lark dug her thumb between his ribs, and he stifled a grunt.

            Sound slithered over the roof tiles above them.

            Her gaze met Charlie's, and she made a few quick gestures with her hand in the sign language her mentor, Tin Man, had once taught her. Tin Man had been mute, and she'd taught Charlie how to speak with him when they were both children.

            Charlie nodded, turning to the side to allow her enough space to make her move.

            Tugging a knife free from his belt, she turned and threw it as far as she could. The clatter of it landing on the cobbles echoed through the still night.

            “Had to be one of mine?”His fingers moved rapidly.

            “Payback for startling me.”

            There was no sound above, but a shadow suddenly appeared in the alleyway, the guard moving across the roof in the direction she'd thrown the knife.

            Then she and Charlie were moving in the opposite direction like wraiths.

            Into an alley, and then down the next one….

            She'd plotted out every inch of these streets during the week she'd spent watching the diplomat's house, and knew the best way to get out of here.

            Staying on the streets was too dangerous. They'd be trapped like rats in a barrel if they did, so she scaled a wall between gardens, crawled up the nearest drainpipe, and squatted on the roof. Up here, they had more space to maneuver and a better vantage point.

            Just in time.

            A patch of shadow moved toward them, dancing between chimneys. The guard must have found the knife and realized they'd be heading in the opposite direction.

            “Left,”Charlie told her.

            Which meant she went right.

            It didn't escape her notice that he'd given her the safest route, with plenty of cover. Charlie sprinted along the ridge of the roof, clearly visible. Damn him. Drawing the fire if it came. And the pursuit.

            “You stupid, risk-taking bastard,” she breathed, and went after him and the guard. If they survived the night, then she was going to kill him.

            Shots rang out, ricocheting through the darkness.

            Charlie vanished down the slope of the roof, and Lark's heart was in her throat as dogs set up howling. Lights flickered on in several windows nearby. If any of the guards at Golorukov's house heard the racket, someone might grow curious enough to investigate.

            She sprinted up the ridgeline, ducking behind a chimney when she caught a glimpse of the burly shadow surveying the streets below him. Lark slid one of her knives from her sleeve into her gloved hand, barely daring to breathe.

            “Lark?” Charlie whispered hoarsely.

            It sounded as loud as a shout in the night, and relief flooded through her for all of a second, before she realized he must have seen her and was trying to distract the guard.

            The guard turned to aim his pistol in Charlie's direction, and Lark slipped up behind him and put her knife to his throat.

            “Don't move,” she whispered, digging a second knife into the inch of skin just above his kidneys, so he wouldn't get any foolish ideas. His hands looked normal; his face held no metallic gleam of implants. Not enhanced, thank God. “You hurt my friend, and I'll slit you a smile from ear to ear.”

            The guard froze. “You won't get away from us.”

            Us.A chill ran down her spine. “How many?”

            He stayed silent.

            “Do you know what I think?” Lark continued. “There were six guards on rotation in the gardens. Two in the house. You've got an entire ballroom full of potential enemies. I think you're the only one out here following me, which means—unless they heard the shots—we've got a window of ten minutes or so before they start wondering why you haven't returned. Would I be correct?”

            “Curse you, you thieving bitch.”

            Charlie scrambled up the roofline, grimacing at the howling dogs below. “We need to get out of here.”

            “Agreed.”

            Lifting his pistol, he smashed it across the guard's temple and the man sagged against her.

            “He's a blue blood,” she told Charlie, which meant he probably wouldn't stay down for long.

            “Why the hell does Golorukov have blue blood guards?”

            The craving virus had once been an exclusive right of the aristocratic Echelon's sons. Accidents happened, of course, when the virus was so virulent, but they'd classed those infections as rogue blue bloods, and it wasn't wise to advertise your status as such. Both she and Charlie were rogues.

            “The Russians don't follow the same rules the English Echelon did. They infect their guards,” she replied, dragging the unconscious man against a nearby chimney. Ripping his shirt open, she found the black raven tattooed on the middle of the man's chest. Hell. “He's an Imperial Raven. We need to move. Now.”

            Charlie sighed and handed over a small, lethal looking dart. “Hemlock him, just in case. Might keep him down for longer.”

            So Lark did.

            Hemlock caused an adverse reaction in a blue blood, rendering them paralyzed for a certain amount of time.

            Then she stripped the Raven to his smallclothes and bound him to the chimney with his belt.

            Because they'd need every inch of a head start if the Raven somehow got their scent. 

            “Now,” Charlie said, “we need to talk.”

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