“Come. We’re late—and you know who shall bear the blame for that.”

Perry fell in behind him as he strode toward the guild headquarters, his long legs eating up the distance. She barely noticed the people around her, her hands tucked into the pockets of her long leather coat and her gaze on the cobbles in front of her.

The only thing she noticed was the paperboy’s distant cry echoing in her ears. “The Moncrieff is back! Read all about it!”

No reason to suspect their paths would ever cross. But a shiver ran down her spine all the same.

***

“So kind of you to join us.”

Perry shut the door, her gaze raking over the inside of Lynch’s study. Or Garrett’s now, rather. She had to stop expecting to see her old master here at the guild. He often visited, but he’d made it clear that he had a life outside the guild now.

The room was almost precisely the same as it had been under Lynch’s reign. The enormous desk dwelled beneath the windows, curtains drawn back to allow light to enter, and dozens of books lined the mahogany shelving. The whole place looked and smelled like male. If she took a breath she could almost capture Lynch’s presence. Not his scent of course, for blue bloods had no scent, but the familiar accompanying odor of leather and ink, his cheroots, and the enticing, mouthwatering scent of the blud-wein he’d liked to drink.

Two men sat on the sofa before the cold fireplace. Perry nodded at Fitz, who nervously toyed with the frayed sleeve of his tweed coat. He hadn’t aged a day in the time that she’d been there. Perry herself had stopped aging at roughly twenty, her skin still as smooth and creamy as a youth’s.

Fitz’s left eyebrow was growing back in after a laboratory accident, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses. A slender man with shoulders narrower than hers, he’d found his place in the bowels of the building, turning that significant intellect toward matters of a mechanical or alchemical nature. The man was a genius. His inventions had eased the difficulty of investigations dramatically.

At his side, Doyle was his polar opposite. The only human member of the guild, he ran the place like Garrett’s quartermaster, his grizzled bark stripping the hide off a number of the raw recruits. Once, long ago, a blue blood novice had made the mistake of challenging Doyle, considering himself above a mere human. They still whispered about it down in the novice halls.

“Apologies,” Byrnes said with a slightly mocking drawl, tossing his coat over the back of an armchair and easing his large frame into it. “Perry wanted to stop and survey the society pages.”

That brought her attention to the last person in the study. Not that she’d been unaware of him since she’d entered. No, she’d felt his gaze on her the instant the door opened.

Looking up beneath her lashes, she caught a glimpse of Garrett’s blue eyes on her and nodded. Hot blue eyes with a question in them.

“The fault was mine,” she admitted, slipping her own coat from her shoulders.

There were three seats remaining. One crushed between Doyle and Fitz, or the entire sofa facing them, where Garrett would no doubt take up residence. Cursing Byrnes under her breath for moving faster than her, Perry crossed the room and tentatively slid her own coat over the back of the sofa.

As soon as she sat, Garrett pushed away from the fireplace behind her. She felt his presence stirring the air as he brushed past. Perry stiffened. So much had changed in the past month and it was entirely her fault.

For years her devilishly handsome partner had looked at her as just another Nighthawk, while she’d been plagued by foolish, girlish ideas. Something she’d never acted on, of course, or betrayed even the slightest hint of, but she couldn’t seem to banish the feelings.

She thought she could control them. And then last month two things had changed her entire world. Garrett had been seriously wounded by a rabid blue blood lord to the point where she’d almost thought she would lose him. Only her blood had saved his life and she’d sat by his bed for days, a horrible, sickening feeling inside her.

Then barely a week later, once he was healed, the incident at the opera had occurred.

She could never think of it without referring to it as the “incident.” Stupid, reckless pride. That was the cause of her current predicament.

“Don’t play games you can’t afford to lose. I’ll only offer my surrender this once.”

Advice she wished she’d listened to.

Garrett settled onto the sofa beside her, his arms stretching out along the back of it and jolting her out of the memory. Ever since that night, she’d hardly seen him. Not only had he partnered her with Byrnes, but he was frequently “busy” attending to guild matters. It could have been coincidence. Perhaps.

“Find anything interesting in the newspaper?” he asked.

“Nothing worth repeating.”

“Then is it possible at all for us to have this meeting?” Frustration edged his words. He tugged his pocket watch out of his leather coat. “You’re fifteen minutes late. I’d expect it of Byrnes…”

Byrnes arched a brow but said nothing. The two men had been at each other’s throats for the past month. It didn’t help matters that the ruling Council of Dukes hadn’t officially confirmed Garrett’s advancement as Master of the Nighthawks. The Council had allowed Lynch to establish the guild under their control forty years ago, and Byrnes was taking full advantage of their indecision in this matter.

“We’re here now,” she replied.

“Excellent.” Garrett scanned the room. “I have here a writ from the Council. They have agreed to examine my claim as Master of the Nighthawks. If no one has any objections, of course?”

Though he didn’t quite look at Byrnes, Perry did. The other man shrugged as if he didn’t care, but his arctic eyes gleamed. He and Garrett had been with the Nighthawks for a similar length of time, and both had worked within the inner rank of Lynch’s Hand—the five who had been his most trusted lieutenants.

Lynch had created the Nighthawks forty years ago, and in all that time there’d never been a thought given to succession. Lynch had always seemed invulnerable—until he’d met Rosa, the devilish revolutionary who’d stolen his heart and set his feet on a new path.

“No objections?”

Silence greeted the room.

“Moving on, then.” Garrett briskly placed the letter beside him. “Matters of importance include Lady Walters’s missing diamonds, a murder in Bethnal Green, and some sort of rumors about fighting in the Pits…” His voice droned on and Perry found herself only half listening, which was unusual.

She’d known this new life she’d found wouldn’t last as soon as she’d read that the Moncrieff had been exiled for ten years. This year made only nine, which meant the prince consort had recalled him for some reason—and not only recalled him, but offered him a seat on the Council of Dukes who ruled the city.

Such a position was an honor. What the devil had Moncrieff done for the prince consort to reward him as such? And what was she going to do?

Everyone thought Octavia was dead, murdered by the Moncrieff’s own hand and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. She’d made sure of that—the blood that had washed his bedroom left little doubt that someone had died there.

The only person who might suspect she was alive would be the Moncrieff himself.

Shock was starting to wear off. She’d hoped their paths wouldn’t cross, but she knew him too well. Now that he was back in London he’d be looking for her, trying to read a trail that was nearly ten years old. With luck, he’d never find her, but if he did…

“We also have a supposed sighting of a ghost, down at Brickbank where they’re rebuilding the draining factories.”

That jerked her out of her reverie.

Perry looked up and realized that Garrett was watching her. “What?” Was he jesting with her? Trying to see if she’d been paying attention?

“A ghost?” Byrnes asked in disbelief. “Sounds like someone’s been at the gin again.”

“A ghost sighting and two bodies,” Garrett repeated, “at the draining factory this morning.”

The enormous factories near Brickbank were where the blood gathered in the blood taxes was stored, purified, and bottled for the Echelon’s private use.

“Perry,” Garrett continued, “I want you on this, along with myself.”

He hadn’t worked with her in more than a month. If she hadn’t been trying so hard to avoid him, she’d almost suspect he’d been avoiding her too. Which was ridiculous. What had happened at the opera—the almost kiss—was likely nothing to Garrett. Flirting with women was the same as breathing for him.

“As you wish.” She let out a slow breath. This was her job. It didn’t mean anything and she could do this, pretend that there was nothing between them but friendship. She’d been doing it for years.

“Excellent.” Garrett straightened, looking around. “Nothing else?”

Byrnes glanced at her, then at Garrett. When she arched a brow at him, Byrnes gave her a tight little smile that could have meant something or nothing at all. “Nothing that would interest anyone else.” He stood and stretched like a cat. “Though I will be sorry to lose my partner.”

Perry shot him a withering glare.

“You’re not,” Garrett announced, leaning back against the sofa and staring Byrnes down. “You’re exchanging partners. I’m sending you out with a novice.”

The stretch faltered. “I work better alone. You know that.”

“You’re one of the best trackers the Nighthawks have,” Garrett replied, just as quickly. “I want some of the better novices to be paired with you at times, so they may learn.”

“They’ll slow me down.”

“Then hurry them up.”

Garrett pushed to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back and turning away from Byrnes, effectively ignoring him. Doyle and Fitz sat quietly on the opposite sofa, watching the byplay with entirely different expressions. Fitz looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and Doyle seemed to be mentally placing bets.

Doyle scratched his chin and, with a slight grunt, climbed to his feet, working out the kink in his hip. “You boys want to play c**k o’ the yard, you ought to get yourselves down to the trainin’ room and work it out. The guild don’t need us fightin’ among ourselves with all this upheaval.” He paused in front of Byrnes on his way out. “My money’s on Red, just so you know.”

Byrnes gave one of those slow shrugs he was famous for. He stood and clapped Doyle on the back. “Don’t get too cozy with it, then.”

With a rough laugh, Doyle escorted him out of the room. Fitz slunk after them with an almost apologetic look at Garrett. One of the reasons he lived in the dungeons and played with clockwork weaponry was because he abhorred violence.

Perry found her feet, eyeing the door.

“Perry.”

Damn it. She froze and glanced at Garrett reluctantly. “I was going to get ready. I’ll meet you downstairs and get the boilers going on the steam coach.”

Garrett turned to face her, his hands still clasped behind himself and his eyes spearing through her. Authority suited him. “You’d tell me if you were troubled about something, wouldn’t you?”

What? Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Of course. Why would you say such a thing?”

“You seem distracted. Being distracted can get you killed, and I won’t have that.”

The flush burned hotter. Perry dug her short nails into her palms, trying to force her body to stay still. To not look guilty. “I’m fine. I shall meet you by the carriage and we can go examine the draining factory.”

Garrett nodded. He wasn’t satisfied, not nearly, she thought, but at least he didn’t push her.

Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she managed to escape from the room.

A month ago, she might have confided in him.

Three

The first draining factory loomed out of the fog like an ancient steel ruin. Fire had done what the years hadn’t yet achieved, rusting steel and destroying everything else until the main factory looked like a shell of its former self. Blackened steel spars ended halfway in the air, where the heat from the fires had sheared off the beams, and the brickwork of the enormous furnaces was pitted and choked with coal.

Five of the factories had been gutted in an attack several months ago by the humanist movement—those members of the human population who were dissatisfied with their lack of rights. That left only a single factory in use by the edge of the Thames, its smokestack belching thick, black smoke into the air.

Work on the factories had resumed almost as soon as the fires went out. The sudden shortage of blood left the Echelon bleating for more, and in response, the prince consort had decreed that rebuilding the factories was the first priority in restoring this section of London. Never mind the blackened and charred houses that had been caught in the blaze. The occupants there were only human, and working class at that.

Garrett closed the black lacquered door to the steam carriage as he stepped down. Perry had swept her driving goggles up on top of her head, the glossy black strands of her hair tumbling in disarray. Cursing under her breath, she pulled the lever that shut off the oxygen valve to the boilers and waited for the steam carriage to hiss itself into a whispered death. Little half-moons of soot stained her cheeks, a sight that almost brought a smile to his face.

She didn’t look at him. She hadn’t in over a month, not directly. As though looking at him meant she too would have to confront what had happened at the opera. The turning point in both their lives.