feeling left her surprisingly vulnerable. This, more than anything, was her truth. Not the words she had just spoken, but her own admittance that she had growing feelings for him.
A blue blood.
Abruptly she tugged her fingers from his grasp. Panic curled through her abdomen and she turned away, almost tripping on her skirts. Balfour had taught her to fear neither pain nor death. But…this… And the devastation it left in its wake…
“I’m sorry,” he said curtly. “I did not mean to do that.”
Rosalind nodded, tucking her hands into each other. What was she thinking? Maybe Ingrid was right. Perhaps it was time to cut her losses… But then he had just promised to help her try and find Jeremy.
She needed to see this through to the end.
If she could. For the first time, Rosa had serious doubts about her ability to remain cool and unaffected.
“You were right,” she whispered. “I don’t think it wise to pursue this… this…” She had no name for it, as if in the giving of a name, she gave the weakness power over her. “I think perhaps we should remain as we were. Employer and employee.”
She waited for his answer, her head tilting to the side to see him. Uncertainty filled her, she who was never uncertain. What was he doing to her? She had to keep her distance.
“Of course,” he murmured. “But I must insist on walking you home. I hate to think of you out here on the streets.”
She could handle almost anything she found on these streets. The irony was that her one weakness was him. Rosalind took a slow breath, collecting herself. “If you must.”
She turned to accept his sleeve. Lynch staggered into her, his hands clutching at hers before she could stop him.
Horror filled her. His hand closed over the hard metal of her left wrist. She couldn’t feel the touch of course, though she felt as though she should. She felt as though it should burn right through her.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
Then his knees went out from under him and he slumped against her, his hand catching at her skirt, her fingers, anything to stop himself from falling.
That was when she saw the dart sticking out of the back of his neck.
A mocking laugh filled the alley.
Rosalind looked up as a shadow separated itself from the rest. A tall man wearing a heavy leather seaman’s coat lumbered forward. He didn’t bother to hide the sharp hook he wore instead of a left hand, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding over her.
“Well, now. Look what we got, boys. A Nighthawk by the looks of it. And a well-rounded tart.” A smile split his broad face. “The craver for Mordecai, and the bitch for me.”
She watched the hook, her gaze following its hypnotic motions. Years ago, seeing a glimpse of that would have been any East-Ender’s worst nightmare. The slasher gangs that had roamed these parts used whatever scrap metal they could find to enhance themselves. Some said they even cut the limbs from their own flesh to replace with cruel hooks and sharp blades in order to join the gangs. The better to drag a body to Undertown, where they’d strap it to a gurney and drain it of blood for profit.
Three years ago, a vampire had taken care of most of them, with the Devil of Whitechapel cleaning up the rest. Obviously some few had escaped.
And Mordecai must have allied himself with them, giving them the secret of hemlock.
“I’m afraid I’ve got a prior engagement.” Rosalind watched the shadows. Slashers used to run in packs, hunting their prey like wild dogs. There’d be more of them.
A second man slid free of the encroaching fog. Then a third. Rosalind glanced up as something shifted in her peripheral vision and saw more on the roof.
At her feet Lynch made a helpless noise in his throat. A sudden burning fierceness in her chest took her by surprise. They weren’t going to get their hands on him. She’d make sure of that.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I won’t leave you.”
“Get her,” the slasher said with a contemptuous wave of his hook. “And tie that bleeder up before he comes to.”
Rosalind’s hand dipped to her pocket and came out with the pistol. She took a step away from Lynch to give herself room to work. “Don’t move,” she said coldly, aiming the pistol at the lead slasher’s forehead. “Or all the metal in the world won’t fill this hole.”
He grinned slowly. “That’s a pretty little toy, lass. You know how to use it?”
“Would you care for a demonstration?” Rosalind pulled the trigger.
The slasher staggered back, his eyes rolling up in his head and a red dot blooming in the middle of his forehead. His body hit the ground hard and Rosalind was moving, leaning low to take the knife from her boot. She preferred a pistol but in these streets it wasn’t wise to draw too much attention.
The two remaining men stepped forward, expressions blunt and hard. One of them took the lead, his ugly face marred by what looked like a half dozen scars.
“I’m going to keep you alive for that,” he promised. “For a very long time.”
“I have no such compunctions.” She leaped over Lynch’s broad back, grateful that he was lying face-first and couldn’t see.
The man met her blade with one of his own; a knife grafted to his forearm, no doubt drilled into the bone. Rosalind swirled, the skirts barely hampering her as she released the Carillion blade in her iron hand. It slipped between his ribs with a surgeon’s ease, then she slashed down with her other knife, dragging it across the inside of his thigh. Blood sprayed across her skirts, hot and coppery as she hit the femoral artery.
He went down with a scream and she spun low, hooking the toe of her boot behind the other man’s heel with feral grace. Anger burned hot in her throat. She wanted this, needed it. Anything to drive away that helpless feeling and unleash the tide of hopelessness within her.
As he hit the ground, she was upon him, slamming her heel into the vulnerable bones of his throat. A satisfying crunch filled the air.
Noise whistled in the eerie fog. Rosalind spun, knife held flat. Then something heavy dropped over her and she went to her knees under a net, the ends weighted with lead.
Damn her skirts! She tried to kick, but the net was tangled hopelessly with her bustle and she’d dropped the bloody knife. A pair of boots landed in front of her, then the sound of another. Rosalind slashed desperately at the net with her Carillion blade. It sawed through the thick hemp with ease, but then hands caught her by the upper arms and she was dragged upright, the net wrapped round and round her ankles.
“No!” She jerked hard, the first hint of unease seeping insidiously through her veins. “What are you doing? Get your hands off me!”
The world upended as someone dragged her over their shoulder. Through the net, she glimpsed a pair of men kneeling over Lynch and something flared white-hot within her.
“What are you doing to him?” She kicked desperately.
“Take her down below,” someone snapped. “Throw the bitch in a cell while we get the bleeder contained.”
The giant beneath her turned around and Rosalind lost her view of Lynch. “No! Help! Someone help!” she screamed, feeling dread for the first time in years.
If they hurt him… She shook her head. He was invincible. A blue blood. Surely he could get free and save himself.
But they’d paralyzed him with hemlock. She of all people knew only too well how to incapacitate blue bloods—and keep them that way.
“No!”
