My Lady Quicksilver

situation.”

Which was precisely what she would have done in Ingrid’s situation. Rosalind slowed as she neared a door. What the hell was wrong with her? Lynch hadn’t been injured, not badly… Though she felt an odd discomfort at the thought of his blood on her fingers. The ruse with Molly would assuage any doubts he might own if she slipped up by accident. Act. Don’t react, Balfour had always said.

Holding the flickering gas lamp high, Rosalind slipped through the door. “I just wish you’d have given me some warning,” she murmured.

Shadows melted away from the encroaching light, revealing enormous man-shaped statues in the dark. Light gleamed on steel, reflecting back off the empty glass eye slit of the creature in front of her.

“One hundred and twelve,” Rosalind said, staring down the rows of automatons. “And not enough.”

“Calculations indicate each of our Cyclops are worth four of the Echelon’s metaljackets,” Ingrid said with a shrug. She tucked a cheroot between her full lips and struck a match. Red phosphorus burned in the cold, dark cellars, then Ingrid shook it out.

The other woman disdained the chill, wearing naught more than a gentleman’s shirt rolled up to the elbows and a pair of tight, men’s breeches. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back tight into a chignon that left her high cheekbones bare. Sucking back on the cheroot, she blew the sweet-scented smoke through the room, running a bare hand over the steel-plated arm of the Cyclops.

Rosalind sighed. “And they have over a thousand of those.”

“We’ll make enough.”

“Eventually.” At that, her lips thinned. Ever since the mechs had abandoned the humanist cause and vanished, the secret production of the Cyclops had ground to a halt. She could be patient—she would be—but she was fast running out of options. And now that Lynch had discovered her supply smuggling route out of the enclaves, she had even fewer. “Have you finished inquiring in the enclaves for a blacksmith?”

“Mordecai’s evidently beaten us to it. Not a mech amongst them will offer us help.”

“Then we look elsewhere. Kidnap one of the Echelon’s master smiths.”

Ingrid choked on her cheroot. “Are you insane? The Echelon has them locked up tighter than a virgin’s drawers.”

“Then where?” she snapped, spinning on her heel and staring at the silent, motionless giants. Based on the metaljackets’ blueprint, they’d been designed so that each heavy breastplate opened wide for a human to haul themself inside and manipulate the metal monster from within. It gave them a greater dexterity and manipulation, with a human’s reactions safely guarded behind the thick steel body armor. Coupled with the cannons that were fitted to each arm, they could belch Greek fire accurately up to twenty feet.

“I need men to wield them,” she continued. “And men to build them. I don’t have either at the moment.”

“You’ve always been patient enough to wait.”

“That was before Jeremy vanished!” Cursing under her breath, Rosalind slapped her hand against the nearest Cyclops. Pain stung her palm, bringing with it a clarity she knew she needed. She was failing—failing her brother, failing Jack and Ingrid by this odd softening toward her enemy, and failing Nate’s final dream to restore human rights in Britain. Somehow, speaking of him tonight to Lynch had stirred her guilt to tormenting levels. “Did you circle the guild?”

“Aye. No sign of Jeremy’s scent. I’ve been in the city too—”

“Ingrid!” she snapped, turning on her friend. “You take too many risks. One look at your eyes and every blue blood in the city would know precisely what you are.”

As if to spite her, Ingrid lifted her gaze, those metallic golden irises catching the light. “The laws against verwulfen have been revoked. And there’s enough trickling in from Manchester and the Pits for one more not to be noticed.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.” A blue blood was a verwulfen’s natural enemy. Even Ingrid’s berserker- fueled strength wouldn’t help her if there were enough of them. “Promise me you won’t take any more risks. Don’t go near the city again—don’t show your eyes.”

Ingrid’s shoulders swelled, a look of burning indignation narrowing her eyes. “I’ve as much a right as you,” she growled softly. “I’ve hidden these bloody eyes half my life, down here in the dark. Now that the blue bloods have signed a truce with the Scandinavian verwulfen clans, I don’t have to hide anymore.” Her expression turned stubborn. “I won’t. It kills me to be cooped up down here, in these bloody tunnels.”

Rosalind clasped Ingrid’s hand between her own—one of the few who would dare when Ingrid was in this mood. The skin beneath her right palm was burning hot. The loupe virus that made Ingrid what she was had done more than just make her super-humanly strong. “I know.” Rosalind’s voice softened. “I’m just worried that the truce is still too new. The blue bloods have long memories and some of them are so old they still live in the past.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “If you go above, take several of the men. Or Jack, even.”

Ingrid tossed the cheroot to the floor and ground it beneath her heel, expressionless. The very blankness of her face told Rosalind how upset she was. Ingrid had long since learned to keep her temper leashed for fear of hurting someone, and her control showed in the stiff line of her shoulders.

“Truce?”

Ingrid glared at her moodily, then nodded. Rosalind grabbed her hand in a rough shake, squeezing with her iron fingers. Ingrid’s nostrils flared, but she squeezed back. The seconds dragged out, then Ingrid shoved her away, cursing under her breath.

Rosalind hit the wall and laughed—an old ritual that never failed to soothe Ingrid’s savage temper. She flexed the metal fingers, feeling the muscle grab through her forearm where the steel cables met tendon.

“If you’ve broken my hand, you’ll have to pay for it,” Rosalind warned with a smile.

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “I’ll kidnap a master smith.”

Rosalind’s mirth faded at the reminder. She pushed away from the wall. “Come. We’d best get going after these mechs. I’ll need some sleep tonight if I’m going to manage my lord Nighthawk on the morrow.” The thought tightened something within her—a feeling of shivery anticipation.

She was so distracted she didn’t even notice the sharp look her friend gave her.

Ten

Rosalind yawned as she entered her study at the guild. She’d spent half the night searching for the missing mechs. There was no sign of them anywhere in the blacksmiths, the iron foundries, or the enclaves, where they might be working steel. There were plenty of whispers about the massacres in the city, however.

Closing the door, she blinked. Something seemed out of place.

The sense of wrongness became immediately evident. Her desk was piled with a mishmash of folders, abandoned paperwork hanging precariously from the top of the pile.

The culprit was nowhere in sight.

He’d found her note. Rosalind took a step forward, surveying the scene of devastation. In the wake of all that had occurred last night, she’d quite forgotten it.

Poor timing on her behalf perhaps, though she’d been unable to help herself at the time—that rash, impulsive feeling she could never quite escape.

Control helps, she told herself, eyeing the massive pile and trying to smother her first instinct, which was retaliation. Balfour had taught her that, and while she hated him, she would use the lessons he’d given her to master her own impulses.

Finding order in this chaos, however… She sighed and reached for the top sheaf of paper. The writing was barely legible, an impatient type of script, as if Lynch couldn’t get the words out swiftly enough.

Mrs. Marberry,

Since you evidently have so little to do, I have found some old case files for you to sort. Some of them—the 1863 files, I think—refer to a rash of odd poisonings in the city. I want those files on my desk by noon. There are also lists of the blacksmiths in the city. I want them all cross-referenced against the metalworking guild’s records to see who is capable of creating bio-mech parts. The guild records are…somewhere in the pile.