The Mech Who Loved Me(58)

Winthrop reached for the counter, dragging himself up and slumping against it. His face was turning purple, but he somehow managed to slam a hand on a pile of papers.

"No weapon will save you now," Ghost murmured, looking around. There was little left to salvage here. Winthrop wouldn't dare lie. He had only the one small bag of mushroom, which wasn't enough, and none of the other herbs or books interested Ghost.

Winthrop caught a small card and tried to shove it toward him. Ghost frowned, then bent and picked it up when it fluttered to the floor at his feet.

"What's this?" He scanned the calling card, a very familiar name catching his eye. "Miss Ava McLaren." One of Malloryn's little mice. "She was here?" When Winthrop didn't answer, he caught the man by the jaw and slammed him upon the counter, his fingers biting into the man's skin. "Why was Miss McLaren here? What did she want? Was she asking about the mushroom?"

Winthrop gurgled, but he managed to give a faint nod.

Ghost snapped the man's neck, leaving the room suddenly silent. He wiped the froth of Winthrop's drool off his hands-could the man not even make a clean death?-and then considered the note again. Blood and ashes. How the hell had Miss McLaren discovered the link between the dhampir and the mushroom?

Ulbricht. It had to be Ulbricht. That bastard had done something with the caterpillar mushroom, something that drew undue attention, right when Ghost needed to slip beneath Malloryn's notice.

And worse, it meant Malloryn might now hold information on the one substance that seemed deadly to both a blue blood and a dhampir.

Ghost strode out the back door, meeting his second's eyes. Obsidian had been born in fire, the way he had been-created in the asylum and laboratories of Dr. Erasmus Cremorne. But there were times when he wondered if his second was quite as hard as he needed to be.

Those dark eyes flickered toward the interior of the shop, where nothing but silence remained.

"I have a task for you," Ghost said, handing the other dhampir the calling card. "Ulbricht's double-crossed me. I want his head on a platter. No. Actually, bring him in alive. I'd like to do the honors of carving his heart out of his chest personally." 

"And Miss McLaren?" Obsidian asked, no doubt having heard it all, thanks to his enhanced senses.

Miss McLaren, hmm.... "She's interested in our caterpillar mushroom, it seems. I think we should show her firsthand precisely what it does to a blue blood. Send one of the new lads out to introduce her to it. Perhaps Corbyn? It can be an initiation for him-it's not as though she's a dangerous target, and he now knows the price of failure."

He'd made Corbyn hold Jameson down while he removed the lad's ear.

"He's not ready."

Your opinion, not mine. Ghost ground his teeth together. "Then put a bullet in him and send someone else. Just make sure she's dead before she can breathe a word of what she's found in Malloryn's ear. Oh, and clean up that mess inside."



* * *

When one needed to enter a building unannounced, one called in the experts.

So it was that barely six hours after Kincaid matter-of-factly told her they were going to break into Major Winthrop's shop, Ava found herself crouched in the small alley behind it. Her clockwork heart was pressure-driven, but it seemed to be running faster than usual, and she had the horrible feeling Major Winthrop was going to jump out at any moment and catch them.

"Relax," Kincaid murmured, drawing a black leather mask down over his face. "Nobody's here. Charlie's already checked, and I wouldn't be bringing you into a situation I thought was dangerous."

Charlie knelt in front of the door at the back of the shop and withdrew two slim picks. The lad had been born in the rookeries as far as she knew, so picking locks was second nature to him. He could do it in his sleep, he'd assured them.

"I am relaxing," she whispered back, then flinched. Was that a cat yowling in the distance?

A warm hand cupped her nape, rubbing the muscles there. Despite her tension, Ava melted into Kincaid's side, shamelessly arching under his touch. "Sure you are," he whispered, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Shame we're not elsewhere."

Alone was what he meant. His hand slid down her spine, tracing the armored leather corset she'd borrowed from Gemma, and then lower, caressing the curve of her bottom. She wore split skirts, which were also Gemma's, and the sensation of having something rubbing like that between her legs-even fabric-made her feel a little different. A little dangerous.

He was always touching her these days, almost as if he couldn't resist. Or maybe it was just a seductive ploy? She searched his eyes-and the heated look in them-trying to find answers.

Her lips tingled, as if remembering the kiss they'd shared. Had it only been seven or eight hours ago? It seemed a lifetime.