No scientific journal would dare speak of such a thing. Lynch’s lashes lowered in consideration, running over her. The propaganda pamphlets the humanists printed, however, were a different story. Did his secretary have humanist tendencies? Or was she simply one of the many curious in London who read the pamphlets when they were distributed?
He knew a man, an informant who was emphatically loyal to the Echelon, who liked to read the pamphlets, regardless of his loyalties. Jovan thought the caricatures of the prince consort as a pale, bloated vulture hovering over the queen were humorous.
“The amount of time the concoction paralyzes depends upon the amount of craving virus in the blood,” Barrons explained. “The higher the CV levels, the quicker paralysis wears off. I’ve tested it on myself, actually. It takes me four and a half minutes to begin regaining control of my limbs.”
Which meant Barrons had a high CV count. Lynch filed that away for future thought.
“Then if Lord Falcone doesn’t have a high CV count, how on earth did he manage to recover so swiftly?” Rosa frowned.
“That is the question,” Barrons said. “There’s no explanation. In fact, there’s no explanation for his state at all.”
The three of them stopped in front of the study door. From within came the muffled sounds of a thud. Then something splintered.
Barrons reached grimly for the dart gun at his side. “I tied him to the chair,” he admitted. “I believe he’s just broken it. Be prepared for anything.”
Reaching for the door, he eased it open and slipped inside. Lynch clutched his cane-sword and glanced at Rosa. “Stay there,” he snapped, and hurried after Barrons. If he allowed the Duke of Caine’s heir to get killed, then his own head would be forfeit.
The room was silent and dark, a breeze blowing through the gauzy curtains. The splintered remains of the chair littered a rug in front of the desk, with rope discarded in bloodied pools.
Barrons hurried to the window and looked out. “Bloody hell,” he swore. “He must have gone through it.”
The hair along the back of Lynch’s neck lifted.
“This is a catastrophe. If he gets loose in the city, it’ll cause mass hysteria,” Barrons said. “We have to capture him before he goes too far.”
“What are we dealing with here?” Lynch asked, aware of everything the young lord had not said in front of Rosa.
“A blue blood acting like he’s in the Fade when he isn’t. Presume you’re facing a vampire, Lynch, and you might come close to the truth.”
Lynch stilled. Becoming such a creature was the only fear a blue blood had. A vampire could kill hundreds before he was brought down—and had in the past. But the Echelon had become adept at controlling such matters. If a lord somehow managed to alter his CV readings, then the telltale signs of the Fade began to show in his flesh. He began to stink of rot, his body slowly deforming into a wiry, maggot-pale quadrupedal creature.
The hair along his spine tickled. Lynch scrubbed at the back of his neck. Barrons strode past him toward the door but Lynch hesitated. He could smell something now. Something sweet, like flavored ices or sugared buns.
Blood dripped.
“Barrons,” he said slowly. “I don’t think he went out the window.”
The lord reached for the door, his gaze snapping back over his shoulder. Lynch slowly rolled his eyes up and Barrons’s head lifted. He didn’t need to see what had caught the lord’s attention to know where Falcone was.
Barrons jerked his pistol up and Lynch dove out of the way as the man who’d once been Falcone dropped from the plaster ceiling. It landed where he’d been standing and as Lynch rolled to his feet, it sprang for Barrons.
Gunfire spat in the dark room, momentarily singeing Lynch’s vision. All he could see were a pair of dark forms grappling and then Barrons’s yelp as the young lord went down.
Lynch had his own pistol up, but the center of his vision was a mess of glittering lights. Leaping forward, he reached for Falcone and yanked with all his strength, tearing the creature off the fallen lord. Blood stained the air. He could taste it in his mouth, smell it thick in his nostrils. There was no time to see the damage however. Falcone twisted in a way not even a blue blood should be able to and leaped for him.
A blow smashed into his hand and the pistol skittered across the floor. Lynch ground his teeth as his arm was nearly wrenched clean out of the socket. He twisted back, avoiding another blow, and finally caught a good look at his adversary.
Falcone’s face twisted in an expression of rage, his eyes bloodshot and wild. Nothing human lurked there. Blood matted his hair and clothes, and the nails on his hand were sharp. Lynch had a split second to examine him before they raked toward his face.
Parrying with the cane-sword, he barely managed to block the first blow, then the next one, let alone use it to his advantage. Falcone was monstrously fast and each blow echoed up the muscle in Lynch’s forearm. Lynch ripped the sword free of the cane, but Falcone lashed out, nails screaming on steel as he knocked it out of Lynch’s hand.
“Help!” Barrons yelled, scrambling upright. Blood bubbled on his lips and his chest was a raw mess. He clutched at the stained velvet, trying to drag himself into a sitting position against the wall.
Falcone’s head turned at the sound and Lynch seized his chance. He leaped forward, tackling the man to the floor and using his own considerable strength to force Falcone onto his face. Yanking on an arm, he wrenched it up, putting a shoulder lock on the creature.
Light flooded into the room as the door opened.
Lynch recoiled from the bright glare just as Falcone gave a mighty heave beneath him. Rosa rushed inside, backlit by the light, a pistol in her hands and her face grim as her eyes locked on him.
“Get out!” he bellowed. “Get out of the house!”
Falcone strained, the tendons in his shoulder tearing. Lynch could feel his grip slipping, and horror sank its cold claws into his gut as he saw Rosa’s jaw drop in surprise.
“Run!” he screamed as Falcone rolled and threw him aside.
Lynch hit the wall, the breath whooshing out of him. He landed on hands and knees, just in time to see Rosa flee down the corridor. Falcone went after her in a blur.
“Perry! Garrett!” He shoved off the wall and lurched toward the door. Something hurt in his side. Maybe a cracked rib. No time though. He had to stop Falcone—before the creature tore Rosa’s throat out.
That thought burned through his chest like fire. Tearing through the door, he saw the flap of Falcone’s coattails as the lord bounded down the stairs. Rosa screamed out of sight and a gun barked.
“Bloody hell!” Garrett’s voice echoed through the entry.
Lynch sprinted along the corridor as shouts broke out. He didn’t know what was happening. More gunfire coughed. Perry screamed Garrett’s name and then the gunfire fell silent.
Vaulting over the rail of the staircase, Lynch leaped through the air, raking the scene with a sharp glance. Rosa tripped on the bottom step and went sprawling. Garrett was down, clawing at his chest. He was perhaps the only reason Rosa was still alive. Falcone had stopped to attack him first.
Lynch landed hard on the marble foyer below, the vibration shivering up his legs. Falcone ignored him, leaping on Rosa and riding her to the ground. Her head cracked on the marble tiles and the gun in her hand tumbled free.
Blind rage turned his vision to shadows. The demon in him—the hungry, darker side of him—rose with a choking grip until he could barely see. The next thing he knew, he was hauling the creature off Rosa and throwing it into the wall. Falcone gathered his feet under him as he hit and rebounded off it with athletic grace.
Lynch had a knife in his hand before he knew it. Falcone hit him hard, blunt teeth sinking into his throat. Lynch drove the knife up, deep into the creature’s chest. As if realizing his intentions, Falcone jerked, his jaw opening. Lynch grabbed him and yanked him over his shoulder, slamming the lord flat on the ground. His bone handled knife hilt gleamed in the golden light, and he knelt down, using his knee to shove it home as he grabbed Falcone by the head and snapped his neck.
