CHAPTER ONE

London, 1886

            The invitation contained an address, and two words: Come alone.

            Caleb Byrnes had found it earlier that morning, in the middle of his bed in the Nighthawks Guild Headquarters, a place that he'd previously considered impenetrable. Not only were the Nighthawks comprised of rogue blue bloods–those afflicted with the craving virus, whose infection had not been sanctioned by the aristocrats who'd once ruled London–but they were also thief-takers and bounty hunters. An intruder should have been heard, or smelled, or spotted before they got within five yards of the place. And if they hadn't been, then the Guild was protected with all manner of mechanical devices. It was a virtual labyrinth. To his knowledge, nobody had ever broken in successfully.

            His curiosity was aroused.

            Or perhaps that was just a side effect of the fact that the invitation smelled quite liberally of perfume.

            Someone had just dared him.

            Someone who knew enough about him to know what piqued his interest.

            Someone female.

            If there was one thing that Byrnes desired above all else it was a mystery, or a chase. The hunt was everything to him, whether he was hunting miscreants over the rooftops of London, vampires causing mayhem, or women.

            It was only once the chase was done that he grew bored, and considering that it had been a good year since he'd had a decent pursuit or case–that actress from the theatre, or the so-called Vampire of Drury Lane–he figured he was due.

            Hence why he was here, at the address listed.

            Lifting the invitation to his face, Byrnes breathed in the scent, and stared up at the nondescript Georgian townhouse in front of him that threatened to blend into all of the others along the street. If he hadn't owned preternatural senses, the perfume would have been subtle. Lilies floating in the wind past him. As it was he could make out the tiny trace notes of oils and chemicals, of solvents and preservatives, and something faintly musky that he couldn't quite identify.

            Lifting his hand to knock, Byrnes paused, as skirts swished behind him along the footpath.

            “Goodness, Byrnes, is that you?” Ava MacLaren asked, coming directly to a halt behind him.

            Not his intended pursuit, though Ava certainly could have delivered the invitation, as she too was a Nighthawk, and therefore had the means to enter his room. The scent was wrong however. Ava was engine oil, blood and chemicals, masked by the faint trace of rose perfume she sometimes wore.

            “Indeed it is.” Byrnes raked a glance over her, and missed nothing–including the gold-engraved invitation trailing from her fingers. His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

            Three years ago, Ava had been the victim of a madman who performed clockwork experiments on women, a case that had left her with a thick, ragged scar down her chest, a mechanical heart, and a case of the craving virus. Her parents had thought her dead, and there was no place in the world for a female blue blood such as herself, so she'd ended up staying at the Guild, and taking a position there in the laboratories with Fitz. In three short years, she'd become quite adept at crime scene investigation, whereas Fitz still fainted at the sight of blood.

            Had Ava received the same invitation? The thought irritated him a little, for he'd thought this to be his mystery. However, he saw Ava as a friend­–one of the few he truly owned–so he pushed the thought away.

            “Same reason, perhaps, as yours.” Ava lifted the invitation ruefully, juggling her parasol in her other hand. “I received this but an hour ago. It sounded urgent.”

            “Urgent?”

            Ava offered him the piece of parchment.

            To the Divine Miss McLaren… An offer awaits you, if you dare… Come immediately.

            Ava's cheeks colored. “I thought–perhaps–an admirer. I was just curious…”

            “You should be more careful,” Byrnes said with a frown, turning it over to find the same address listed. “What if it hadn't been? What if someone with nefarious intentions sent this to you instead?”

            “They still might have nefarious intentions,” she suggested.

            “Yes, but my virtue is non-existent, and everyone knows it. So I doubt they'd have invited me.”

            Ava rolled her pretty green eyes. She was used to his humor, though she often told him it was lacking. “I'm a blue blood, Byrnes. There's not a lot that could kill me, and considering my heart is made of metal, perhaps not even a stake through that, hmm? And you've taught me how to protect myself. I deemed it an acceptable risk.”

            True. Blue bloods were exceedingly difficult to kill, thanks to the craving virus, which could heal most injuries. That didn’t mean that killing one was impossible, and Ava had already suffered enough in life.

            Byrnes looked up at the building. “They still might have dangerous intentions. You should let me go first.”

            “I should,” Ava said, swinging her parasol with a dangerous glint in her eyes, “but I'm not going to. For goodness sakes, Byrnes, I'm not a debutante. Besides, I have this–”

            The parasol swung toward him, and Byrnes tensed, ready for anything. “I'm not certain I've fully recovered from the last ingenious device. What does this one do?”

            Her eyes glittered, and she slid her hand toward some trigger on the handle. The tip of it was pressed directly against his chest. “Want to find out?”

            “On second thoughts, I don't want to know,” he replied, moving it swiftly away from him.

            Ava laughed. “Trust me. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end of my electro-magnetic discombobulating device. Talk about sweeping men off their feet…”

            “After you, then,” he said, and knocked on the door again.

            The second his knock died down, the door swung inwards.

            A butler appeared, impeccable in black. “Good morning, Master Byrnes. Miss McLaren.”

Byrnes hadn't heard him so much as breathing. “I believe you have the advantage of us…” He didn’t like not being the one in the know.

           “My name is Herbert. Please come in. You're expected.”

            Herbert's eyes were far too watchful for a mere servant, and the way he moved was… disturbingly graceful. Byrne's eyes narrowed, one hand dropping to the knife sheathed at his side as he stepped past. If he didn't know any better, he would have classified the butler as dangerous.

            “Oh, thank you,” Ava told the butler, holding out her parasol.

            Byrnes intercepted it, and tossed it toward the fellow.

            Herbert snatched the parasol out of the air, moving faster than the eye could see. The butler froze, then returned Byrnes' narrowed glare with a bland one. “Let me put this away for you, Miss McLaren.”

            Huh.

            Byrnes didn't take his eyes off the man as he stepped inside, until the fellow turned to the coatrack.

            Ava gave him a look. “Byrnes,” she mouthed.

            He let a smile stretch over his lips. “For a rogue blue blood, Herbert, you seem to have escaped the fate of the rest of us.”

            Which was either an offer to join the Nighthawks, the Coldrush Guards that protected the Queen, or death. Although ‘offer' could be considered too charitable a word. The aristocratic Echelon had once guarded their blue blood status as a privilege, reserved only for the best. They didn't take kindly to accidental infections.

            “I still serve, Master Byrnes. However, my particular skills were noticed by one who can bypass certain rules.”

            Which narrowed the field considerably. The plot thickened.

            “The others are gathered in the library,” Herbert said, gesturing them toward the stairs.

            “Others?” Byrnes glanced up. He could hear murmurs from above.

            “The rest of the Company, sir.” Herbert returned a bland smile that told him nothing. “If you'll join them, I'll send for refreshments–”

            “Do you know the purpose of this meeting? Who's hosting it? Who's–”

            “All shall be revealed, sir. Perhaps some blud wein for the lady?”

            “Please,” Byrnes replied, then offered Ava his arm to escort her up the stairs.

            “What do you think is going on?” she whispered, her flyaway blonde curls brushing against his shoulder.

            “I don't have a bloody clue,” he replied. “Who are the others? What could they want with a pair of Nighthawks? A case?” He shook his head. “No. They wouldn't have requested your presence, and they would have applied for the commission through the Guild Master. Plus I'm fairly certain Herbert could handle something like that himself.”

            “Do you think he's–”

            “Very dangerous, I suspect.”

            That widened her eyes. Ava gave a delicate sniff. “Not a case, then. I cannot smell any blood. Only… lilies.”

            Lilies. His gut clenched, and his gaze raked the foyer. That at least, boded well. There was something mingled with the scent now though, something almost musky. Byrnes frowned, as a slither of warning lit down his spine, but Ava tugged on his arm, and drew him toward the library. He lost whatever train of thought instinct had served up.

            “You're seem distracted,” she noted.

            “Something on my mind.” The curiosity was almost itching on his skin. Who was the woman who’d delivered the invitation? “Here we are.”

            Byrnes threw the doors open to the library, drawing the attention of three sets of eyes from within. Two men eyed each other across the expanse of the room, one an enormous bruiser with black hair and evil blue eyes, and the other a young lad who bore evidence of the craving virus on his pale skin and the faint, gilded tones of his hair. The distance of almost five feet parted the two men, and the lad looked both cocky and amused, as if he'd been picking a fight with the brute.

            The woman leaning against the curtains rolled her eyes. She was everything elegant, with loose black curls swept into a chignon, and a sweeping fall of violet skirts. Beautiful, but ultimately uninteresting, as Byrnes could detect an Oriental perfume about her, not the one he was hunting for.

            “So who the hell are you?” The black-haired giant demanded, staring up at them from an armchair, with his boot hooked up on his other knee.

            “This would be Master Byrnes, of the Nighthawks,” said the woman by the window, crossing her arms with amused disdain, “and Miss Ava McLaren, I presume?”

            Byrnes and Ava exchanged a glance. Ava looked a little discomforted by the strange man's animosity, but tipped her chin up. “I believe you have the advantage of us–”

            The lady strode forward, her skirts swishing about her legs as she clasped Ava's hand, and squeezed it gently. “My apologies. You may call me Gemma Townsend. Information is an interest of mine, and female blue bloods are so rare, that I've made a note of them. I believe you to be the third located in London proper? The Duchess of Casavian, the Lady Peregrine of the Nighthawks–and yourself?”

            “There's one more,” the lad muttered, “but she… she ain't likely to be known.”

            Byrnes eyed him. “Charlie Todd?” He recognized the boy as one of the rookery lads who ran with Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel, though the little bugger had grown. They were almost of a height now.

            The young man grinned, and shook his hand. “The one and only.”

            The Nighthawks occasionally had dealings in the rookeries, and ever since the corrupt prince consort had been dethroned, Blade had become a common sight around town. The Hero of the Realm, the commoners called him, thanks to his part in the revolution that overthrew the prince consort. More like the devil, Byrnes thought privately. But Charlie was Blade’s ward, and had passed on information before. Trustworthy enough, which, considering Byrnes’ trust in others only went so far, meant a lot.

            “More fucken blue bloods,” the dark haired man said, under his breath. “Like we don't already have enough in here.”

            Ava stiffened, and Byrnes strolled toward the window, hands clasped behind him. “By the scent of oil, and the whir of clockwork, I presume you're a mech.”

            The word had once been an insult, before the Uprising of '83. Humans had been considered cattle, and mechs–those with mechanical limbs or clockwork organs–even less so. Once there had been a line in the sand; blue bloods versus humans and mechs.

Times had changed, or at least, they were changing. Old hatreds, however, still lingered.

            “Aye, I'm a mech. What of it?” Kincaid asked, in a low, threatening tone as he found his feet. Byrnes had an inch on the bastard, but Kincaid more than made up for that in breadth. Muscle rippled beneath his coat, and bulged as the brute flexed his forearms.

            Byrnes simply clasped his hands behind him, and stared back. Ava would no doubt tell him later that he was causing trouble, but sometimes he simply couldn't help himself. “Nothing really. It explains a great deal.” Then he turned away and ran his fingertips over the shelves, as though dismissing the man.

            “Aye, well–”

            “Mr. Kincaid,” Gemma mocked. “Pray don't tell me that blue bloods make you uneasy.”

            Kincaid's voice flattened. “Not really. They tend to bleed just as well as any other, only takes a bit more sticking to finish the job.”

            “Gentlemen,” Ava said firmly. When he looked at her, she arched a brow behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. “Byrnes.” This was said somewhat more warmly, with just a touch of exasperation.

            He held his arms out, as if to say, ‘What?'

            “Well, don't you all wonder why we're here?” Ava asked, including them all in her look. “I don't think picking fights with each other is conducive to anyone's cause.”

            “But hardly unexpected,” Gemma declared, with a faint snort of amusement. “After all, what happens when you put four blue bloods, and a mech in a room together?”

            “That sounds like the beginning of a good joke,” Charlie Todd declared.

            “I just hope it's not on us.” Ava sounded nervous.

            “Only thing is, we're missing one particular species, if we want it to have a truly decent punch line,” Gemma replied.

            “A verwulfen?” Charlie said with a grin.

            The only one who didn't find that thought amusing was himself. Byrnes's gut dropped through his boots at the word. No.

            “Let us hope not,” Gemma said. “We already have one hothead.”

            It continued, but Byrnes' attention had been caught by something else. He could hear footsteps padding behind the closed doors at the far corner of the room, and a slither of shadow darkened the door briefly, softening the air with scent.

            Lilies.

            And something else… Something that was becoming clearer as the day continued, as if the overpowering scent of perfume was wearing away, leaving a musky hint of something else. Something… all woman.

            No. Hell, no.

            Every nerve in his body grew tight. Byrnes stalked toward the door on silent feet, pressing his fingertips against the paneling.

            “–fuck me–” Kincaid muttered.

            From Ava, “Well, it stands to reason. Verwulfen were cleared by the treaty too, you know–”

            “And what would we need one of them for? It's not like this is a frigging alliance of any sort–”

            Every one of Byrne's hunting senses was alight. His mystery was beginning to clear up, and it was drawing a conclusion that he didn't particularly like. Not at all.

            A light, husky laugh mocked him through the door, and then movement danced in the room beyond. Going. His prey was going.

            Byrnes slipped through the doors before he could think about it.

            There was no one there. Only another door, swinging shut slowly, and her scent, becoming obnoxiously clearer the closer he got to her. He knew that scent hiding beneath the perfume. It had driven him crazy a year ago, when someone–the Nighthawks Guild Master–had this smashing idea about pairing him with an outside bounty hunter on a case nobody could seem to solve. His bloody case. The case he couldn't solve.

            “Just work with her, Byrnes. She's good at what she does, and she's an even better tracker than you are–” Garrett's voice echoed in his memory.

            Byrnes grit his teeth. Garrett had known he worked better alone. He always had, and it got on every one of his last nerves to know that not only could he not find the answer in this particular case, but that they expected that she would.

            They lasted an entire day working together.

            And then it became a competition.

            “Bet I catch the killer first,” that husky voice whispered in his mind.

            “I bet you I do,” he'd shot back, and stepped toward her, into her space. “And when I do, you're going to get down on your knees, and–”

            “And?” She'd drawled, straightening a little, her eyes lighting with a challenging fire.

            It changed what he'd meant to say. ‘…And kiss my boots…' had been his intention. That was not what had come out. The instant he'd stated his intentions she'd taken a step toward him, closing that last inch between them, and reached up to whisper in his ear.

            “Be careful what you wish for, Byrnes.” A mocking finger traced over his shirt so lightly he barely felt it, yet the not-quite-touch sent a shiver through him, and their eyes had met then, as something more than words had been exchanged. “I don't think you'll want my teeth anywhere near your balls.” A smile that gripped his cock like a vice. “Not that that will ever happen, but it does add a certain little incentive toward the case. When I bring this bastard in, I have my own terms, and you'll meet them.”

            “Name them.” The shock of his sudden interest had flared through him, and he'd caught her wrist, stopping her hand just above the waistband of his leather breeches.

            “If I solve the case, then I get to tie you to my bed, and do anything I desire to you. Anything at all.”

            A mistake. He should have made her be more bloody specific, but just at that moment she'd flexed her wrist in his grasp, and raked her fingernail over the leather protecting his cock.

            “Done,” he'd said. After all, he'd never lost before.

            If there was one person who could get into his room at the Guild, and leave that taunting note, knowing, just knowing how much it would get his itch going, it was her.

            The Devil in Disguise.

            Pushing open the doors to the next room, he came to a halt. It too was empty.

            And then someone spoke. Someone he knew all too well.

            “Looking for something? Or is it someone?” Said an amused voice from the side.

            Her.

            Byrnes met a pair of eyes that were lit from within with a bronze glow. She hadn't changed one inch from that debacle last year, where he'd been left tied to his bed, naked, with a lovely little message written across his chest in ink, which all of his fellow Nighthawks had found absolutely hilarious.

            “Ingrid,” he said.

            “Did you miss me?”