sing, a coughing eruption barked from the orchestral pit and the shepherdess flinched, glaring at the conductor before resuming.
Steam curled up from the orchestral pit. Some of the crowd clapped, no doubt thinking it an effect.
“Lynch,” she called sharply.
He looked, then strode to the edge of the box, his white gloves curling over the balcony. Another coughing roar echoed in the theatre below. Steam poured from the gaping gilt mouths of the gargoyles that lined the walls and whispered out from beneath chairs. Several of the blue bloods exclaimed in surprise, looking beneath their seats curiously. One of them fell into a paroxysm of coughing, landing on his knees in the aisle.
It would be a massacre.
“They must have set a timer on them,” Rosalind said, her gaze darting around the theatre.
Lynch shot her a hungry look, then swore under his breath. He ripped his coat off and threw it aside, tugging at the white bow tie around his throat until it eased. A pistol was tucked into the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back, but no other weapon seemed visible.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He stepped up onto one of the plush velvet chairs, then leaped lightly to the edge of the rail. “What I always do,” he said coldly. “My duty.” Glancing over his shoulder, he surveyed the crowd below and the curling wisps of steam. “Consider yourself fortunate the mechs are the greater threat at the moment.”
Rosalind swallowed. He was retreating behind that distant, efficient mask, pretending that nothing in the world was the matter—steel walls closing around his already guarded heart. The taste of shame was so thick she almost choked on it.
The theatre looked like the bowels of hell, frightened screams echoing through the darkened chamber. The singer strode to the edge of the stage and began arguing fiercely with the conductor.
Lynch’s weight shifted. Rosalind darted forward and grabbed the leg of his pants, making him look down in surprise at her.
“Where’s your mask?”
“Does it even work?”
She wanted to hit him she was so furious, but a part of her couldn’t blame him. She’d lied to him all along, why would he trust her?
“It works. Why would I send you in unprepared? I want to set you against the mechs, remember? I wanted you to destroy them.”
“So you did.” With a tight little smile, he straightened and stepped to the edge of the rail. “It’s in my coat.”
Rosalind fetched it swiftly. He hesitated for a moment and she couldn’t stop herself. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d push you off the damned balcony. Take it!”
His white gloves curled around the tan leather. “You would be wise to use this opportunity to flee. If I see you again, I won’t be so remiss in my duty.”
Then he bowed tightly, a slight tilting of the head to an adversary—to a stranger—and stepped backward off the rail.
A frightened scream pierced the theatre.
“What’s happening?” a woman called shrilly. “Robert, what’s going on?”
And then, from further back, near the doors. “We’re locked in!” A man yelled. “Someone’s locked the doors!”
Rosalind’s fingers tightened on the rail. A perfect opportunity for her to get away… Why then did the ache in her chest intensify? She didn’t owe him anything. She didn’t owe any of them, but it was Lynch she was suddenly frightened for.
A sweet scent drifted past her nose as the steam rose. The sound of coughing and choking began below. Rosalind hesitated.
Hundreds of blue bloods in the theatre. Lynch didn’t stand a chance by himself. And knowing the man as she did, he wouldn’t back away from the challenge. He’d risk his own damn head at the best of times and now… Now, wasn’t one of those.
Walk away now and she’d never forgive herself.
Rosalind wrenched her reticule open, fighting through the contents until she could drag out her opera glasses. They’d been modified with several different lenses: one that made everything black and white, so that she could view the world as a blue blood did; one that minimized distance, so that it seemed like she stood next to the soprano on the stage; and a phosphorus lens that amplified light, so that one could virtually see in the night, highlighting the faces in the audience below. That was for those theatregoers who were more interested in viewing what was going on around them in the darkened theatre than on stage.
Rosalind snapped the handle off the opera glasses and yanked at her skirts. Dragging her garter down her thigh, she looped it through the edges of the glasses, creating a makeshift pair of goggles. Yanking them over her head, the garter tugging tight at the back of her scalp, she slid the phosphor light-amplifying lens into place and peered over the rail.
The theatre was a green-tinted melee; ladies wilted in the aisles and blue bloods shoved their way toward the door as if escape could save them. One of them leaped onto the stage and rode the opera singer to the ground, her frightened screams piercing the air and then dying abruptly. The bright light from the stage left Rosalind momentarily blind.
Where was Lynch? Her vision blurred, her stomach fluttering with fear. She’d felt this way before: the helplessness, the fear, the guilt… Chained in the darkness while Balfour knelt in front of her and told her that she had five minutes to save her husband.
Taking a deep breath, Rosalind tore her skirts down the sides to free up her movement and then slid her legs over the balcony. Grabbing hold of the polished mahogany, she twisted and let her body fall, the weight dragging at her hands. It was barely a drop for Lynch, but if she landed this wrong, she’d twist her ankle…or worse.
Glancing down, she let herself drop, catching at a gilt gargoyle at the base of the balcony. The goggles skewed perception of distance and she found her fingers slipping. Somehow she turned the fall into a drop, landing on the plush velvet seat of one of the chairs. Thrown off balance, she tumbled into the aisle and rolled out of the way as a blue blood rushed past.
The air was humid here, the taste of the sweet scent stronger. Shoving to her feet, she found herself almost hip-deep in a dense fog. There was no sign of Lynch anywhere. An enormous mob of blue bloods hammered at the heavy bronze doors, cringing away from the steam. They might not know what it was, but they could see the effects clearly enough. Several of them had already succumbed and were hunting debutantes through the seats.
A figure in a white shirt and gleaming silk waistcoat leaped lightly onto a chair back as though it were solid ground and tackled a maddened blue blood lord to the ground as his frightened prey escaped. Lynch. Her breath caught in her chest, but she hesitated, glancing again at the main doors. The steam was rising. If the blue bloods didn’t get out of here, they’d all be stricken with the blood thirst.
Rosalind had to trust that Lynch could take care of himself for the moment. Better one maddened blue blood than an entire theatre full of them.
Lifting her foot onto a chair, she slid her skirts up high enough to retrieve the ladies pistol she kept strapped to her thigh. It was barely the size of her palm, but the firebolt bullets within it were packed with enough chemical to make a blue blood’s head explode on impact.
Shoving grimly into the pack of blue bloods, Rosalind made her way toward the doors, unafraid to use her elbows or wave the pistol in a few faces. Three men strained against the heavy brass doors, stripped to their
