"The Nighthawks are claiming blue bloods were involved with the draining factory explosion. It's all through the papers, my lord," Obsidian said.
Ghost cut him a sharp glance. They'd agreed not to mention that.
The Master's lips thinned. "Malloryn's doing, no doubt. He's starting to truly irritate me."
"I could deal with him," Ghost offered. "Slowly."
"No." The word was hard and emphatic. "Malloryn must be the last to die. I want to take everything away from him first: his precious queen; the city he loves and fought to protect; I want to destroy his ancestral home; to kill every single person around him, including all the agents he's surrounded himself with...."
Obsidian watched as the man paused. He recognized hate when he saw it-the same emotion bound him to the past.
"Then what do you want us to do? This draining factory scheme was a defeat. Malloryn won, despite Ulbricht's maverick plans. That can't be tolerated, despite the desire for secrecy while we enact the next phase of the plan," Ghost argued.
Obsidian waited breathlessly.
"It's not a complete loss. The blue bloods are running scared. Spread some whispers the Nighthawks are covering up the truth about the explosions. Paint a few humanist symbols around the site, or on one of the remaining factories." The Master paused, rubbing at the blackened scar across his throat he usually hid. Its edge was puckered, and it looked as though it had never truly healed. "And then kill one of Malloryn's little company as punishment for ruining my little scheme with Ulbricht. One of the women."
"Which one should we kill?" Ghost asked.
"What do they look like?"
Obsidian and Ghost exchanged glances. "Why?" Obsidian chanced.
"I want to send Malloryn a message," the Master said. "I want to remind him of the past, and let him start to wonder who he's dealing with." He laughed suddenly, a rusty noise, as though this was a great joke.
Obsidian had spent the most time observing Malloryn's Company of Rogues. "Miss McLaren is a blonde with a slim build; Isabella Rouchard has dark hair and voluptuous curves; Ingrid Byrnes has brown hair, amber eyes, and an Amazonian figure typical of her verwulfen race; and... the woman who calls herself Gemma Townsend has dyed black hair."
And an even blacker heart.
Pale eyes seared him as the Master clearly heard something in Obsidian's voice he hadn't been aware of. "Gemma Townsend?"
The name echoed through the abandoned underground train station.
"Hollis Beechworth," Obsidian stated coldly, hiding a flinch. His fist clenched. Not her. He wasn't done with her yet. "Emma Rusden. Alice Clayton. Or Gemma Townsend, as she goes by now. She's been Malloryn's right hand for years."
"The spy in Malloryn's party in Saint Petersburg seven years ago," Ghost added quietly, and both he and the master exchanged a significant look.
"Black hair," the Master repeated, reaching into his pocket. "Her. She's the one. The perfect candidate. Have her killed. Put her in a white gown, like something a debutante-or a thrall-would wear. Then shoot her straight through the heart. And leave her on Malloryn's doorstep."
Obsidian's chest tightened, as though a metal fist gripped his heart. No. Blood began to rush through his ears as the darker half of him rose to the surface, picturing her death.
Violence rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. A demanding rage he fought, locking it down deep inside him. He could almost feel the electric lash of the whip across his back, the leather gag between his teeth as Ghost put him through his conditioning after he'd failed to kill her the first time.
"Do you still love her?" Ghost had asked, as Obsidian fought to breathe around the gag. Ghost held up the electric wire. "Do you have any feelings for that lying little bitch still within you?"
No. He'd shaken his head. And that no had echoed in the place his heart used to lie. Before she ripped it out of his chest.
Ghost straightened. "Yes, Lord Balfour. I'll get one of the new recruits to do it. Perhaps Langley. He needs to prove he's ready to be initiated into the Brotherhood."
Langley was a dead man. Obsidian kept all signs of it off his face, however.
The Master removed his hand from his pocket, fingering something with a certain kind of careful grace. He stared at it for a long moment, as though it meant something to him. Then his lips thinned, and he thrust the thing at Ghost. "And have him put this around her neck."
"A locket?" Ghost sounded surprised.