"Stop comparing yourself to others," he snapped. "You're you, and you should be proud of that fact. There's a million women like Gemma in the world, thousands of women that can flirt, and seduce, and steal a man's secrets. Not so many with Ingrid's fighting skills, no, but anyone can hit something. But you? There are only a few who have anywhere near your intellect, and even fewer still who retain your sense of empathy."
Ava nibbled at her fingernail. "To feel empathy is easy-"
"In this world? To keep it after seeing so many bloody horrible things.... You have no idea how rare you are. You're the kind of woman who can make a man like me-a man twisted with hate-start to think, maybe he's wrong? Maybe there is goodness in the world? In blue bloods? Maybe there is hope for a lasting peace between humans and cravers?"
"I'll thank you not to use that word, please. I don't like it."
And he was becoming rather helpless against her wishes. "Sorry. I'll try not to... if you promise to stop wishing you were someone else."
"I'll... try." Green eyes danced to him then back to the window. "You're a rather complex man. I sometimes cannot figure you out. When you first started with the Rogues, you were terribly unkind to everybody."
"I was never unkind to you."
"True." She laced her fingers in her lap, her head bowed. "But you've softened toward the others. You barely even snap at Gemma anymore."
"And Gemma doesn't provoke me as much as she used to." He sighed. "Maybe I'm not as big and bad as I pretend to be?"
That earned him a shy smile.
Maybe I am? Because right now, he wanted to be very, very bad, and damn the consequences.
"Maybe," she said, swaying as the carriage pulled up. "But sometimes I think I'm not the only one who pretends to be something they're not?"
The steam cab idled at the curb, and Kincaid glanced out the window. Saved by their arrival. He twitched a brow at her, then opened the door and stepped out. A shadow rippled over them, and he looked up to find a dirigible passing overhead. London was taking to the skies, gathering steam with the rest of Europe. About bloody time. France apparently had fields of airships, and if not for the heavy English dreadnoughts that patrolled the channel, they'd have sent their fleet north a dozen times.
"The vaccination clinic." Ava's gaze slid past him as he helped her down. In the sunlight, her skin seemed creamy and glowing with excitement. "Hopefully we can find some answers here."
He loved the way the thought of an answer to her questions made her flush with life. Only Ava would be practically dancing on her toes at the idea of getting her hands on the vaccine clinics. Kincaid paid the driver, and then headed for the door. "How are we going to play this?"
She withdrew something from within her reticule. "I still have my Nighthawks credentials. They'll have to answer my questions."
"And what do you want me to do?"
"Perhaps try to look broody and menacing," she threw over her shoulder. "It shouldn't be difficult. That's what some of the other Nighthawks do."
Bloody woman. He smiled.
Kincaid tucked the collar up on his shirt. Being intimidating came naturally to him, but sometimes he wished there was something else he could do. He had no book smarts, like Ava did, but when it came to working with his hands and creating a mech device, that was where his talents shone.
Not quite talents required for a spy. Sometimes he wondered what Malloryn had been thinking when the duke had offered him the job.
Ava entered the clinic, the bell above the door tinkling, and there was nothing for it but to follow. The foyer was stark and decorated with painted timber signs advertising what the vaccine did, and carefully printed pamphlets on the small tables. Protect your family from the craving virus. The clinics were government owned, which made people a little wary of them, but with the virus easily transmitted by blood, and no longer a province of the Echelon, it was easier than ever to be infected.
Once upon a time, only aristocratic families were allowed to be made into blue bloods, with each noble son going through the Blood Rites at the age of fifteen to see whether he'd be "worthy" of receiving such an elitist boon. Women had been strictly forbidden from receiving it, which made him wonder about Ava's past, but then accidents occurred.
But where had she come into contact with a blue blood? She was clearly a virgin, so it wasn't as though she'd served as some rich lord's blood thrall. A flash of something hot went through him at the thought-the idea of Ava giving up either her flesh or blood rights to a nobleman in exchange for protection and a rich life made him want to punch something.