Of Silk and Steam (17 page)

Morioch shifted. “Look around you,” he snapped, trying to save face. “I’ve got a legion of spitfires.”

“You think that makes you safe? You just threatened my
wife
,” Blade repeated softly, his words distinctly clear of cockney now.

Dangerous.
Leo had seen Blade like this before: eyes blackened with the craving, his hunger stirring to the surface. Utterly ruthless in that moment.

“Shut your saucebox and get out of my sight,” Blade said. “Go home to that fancy manor you got on Blakeley Square and pray that you got enough guards to keep me and my lads out. And if you ever”—he punctuated his words with a pointed finger—“threaten my wife again, I’ll make sure that the last things you ever see are these.” Holding up the pair of razors he wore at his belt, he flicked them open. Firelight flashed on the steel.

Morioch didn’t flinch, but his face tightened as he realized his error. He was, after all, standing in the aptly named Butcher Square. This was where Blade had carved out his legend in blood. “You have until morning,” the duke said, turning toward the carriage. “If your answer hasn’t changed by then, I shall be forced to dig Barrons out myself.”

The footman slammed the door behind the duke after he entered the carriage, the troop of metaljackets taking a uniform step to the side. Blade watched with glittering eyes as the carriage wheeled around, returning to the Ivory Tower. The metaljackets remained behind, falling into rank with a single, echoing step, then becoming silent as they faced the rookery.

“Come,” Leo demanded, his fingers digging into the duchess’s upper arms.

A flash of fire lit her eyes, like flame set to brandy. “Let me go. You and I both know this is foolishness. You’ll never keep me.”

A sudden surge of hot frustration licked at him. He rolled her onto her back on the roof, coming over her. The duchess sucked in a little gasp as all of his weight pressed her down.

“No.” He bit the word off, challenging her. Devil take him, but this was a madness he couldn’t deny. His hands softened on her arms and he rested on his elbows, staring down at her, at her beautiful treacherous face. “You had your chance. All you had to do was call for help.”

“I know you find this difficult to believe, but I don’t actually wish your death on my hands.” The snap of temper in her voice was like a lash. Was that a hint of guilt?

“No?”

“
No
.”

Truth? Or carefully planned lies? Leo rolled off her. “Why are you so bloody desperate to get back to the Ivory Tower?”

“Wasn’t it that milliner’s appointment I simply couldn’t miss in the morning?”

The duchess was back in her place. Lady Aramina at her coolest, arching a disdainful brow as if to deter some young buck.

The ache in his chest grew. Leo pushed to his feet and held out his hand to her. Whatever had begun between them that night at the Venetian Gardens was simply a mirage. She was his reluctant captive, and he had no intention of letting her go. One more staggering loss on top of the rest of them. He could almost feel his face shutting down, emotion blunting within him. Even the ever-present burn of the craving’s hunger was a distant thing tonight.

He didn’t think she’d take his hand, but something softened in her eyes as she absorbed the change in him.

“The gentleman returns,” she murmured.

“Hardly.”

But she caught his fingers, her slight weight barely dragging at him as he hauled her upright. She staggered a step or two, her palms splaying against his chest. That faint hint of seduction sucked at him again, especially as her lashes fluttered over her eyes and she slowly looked up at him. The pale gleam of her face was particularly taunting, for it wasn’t the Duchess of Casavian he stared at. Not in this moment. Just as he was comprised of two halves, split in two at this moment, so was she.

Mina.

He steeled himself.

“Come.” He pushed away from her. “I’d like to oblige your milliner, but I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule.”

“The best-laid plans…and all that rot…”

—Blade, the Devil of Whitechapel

After snatching a couple of hours of grainy-eyed sleep, Leo swung his legs off the edge of the narrow cot and sank his head into his hands. He felt worse than he had when he’d lain down, which felt like mere minutes ago and was probably hours.

Sleep was a luxury few of them could afford, but he’d had to snatch some of it to clear his head. Rubbing at his eyes, he found some sense of alertness. Caine had often deprived him of sleep during his almost-militant training as a youth.

“
Your
enemies
won’t wait for you to be well-rested, my lad
.”

They certainly wouldn’t. And they’d proven to be much closer to home than he’d imagined.
Didn’t they, Father?

At least the bastard had given him a good grounding for this war. He was already dressed, lacking only the protective leather body armor Blade had given him. Dragging it on, he exited the room, his wits sharpening with every second.

The room across the hallway was silent.

Pausing at her door, Leo listened. The sound of the duchess’s soft breathing assured him she was still there. The tension in his gut unwound just a little. Not that she could go anywhere, since he’d used a pair of manacles to bind her to the bed.

Just
let
her
go. Stop this madness.
There was no point to it, nothing beyond the halfhearted reasons he’d given to Honoria. The duchess knew only what the prince consort already suspected. Hardly cause to keep her here against her will like this…

But he turned away grimly, letting his hand fall as he made his way through the house. Letting her go would be the final sign of defeat. He would have nothing then, only memories of the man he’d once been.

War had been on their minds ever since he, Blade, Lynch, Will Carver, and Garrett Reed had first discussed overthrowing the prince consort. Months’ worth of preparations greeted him as he stalked through the dark streets toward the wall. Some of them he recognized as his own suggestions, and a small hint of pride burned in him. There was his mark upon the world, something that he could still call his own.

The wall was lightly manned, though he saw dozens of boots sprawled under blankets in nearby houses, men snatching sleep where they could. Along the top of the wall, Blade had fitted heavy cannons into the slots his men had created in months past. Each cannon was highly modified, prepared to fire scattered shot, which was one of the best ways to take down a metaljacket.

The automatons could splash liquid fire against the walls if they got close enough, and the heavy metal plates protected most of their clockwork inner organs from outside machinations, but their limbs were their weakness. Most of the metaljacket handlers wielded a stable of ten automatons with their high-frequency controllers. Trying to get one of the drones back on its feet once it was down, while wielding nine other automatons… That was a skill in itself.

Of course, all they had to do was get close enough to burn the rookeries. The Echelon’s blacksmiths had long since rediscovered the secrets of Greek fire, and the spitfire models were difficult to stop. If Morioch launched them at Blade, he and his people would be in serious trouble.

Leo nodded at passing men, his hands shoved in his pockets as he waited his turn for the iron ladder that was bolted to the wall. Some men nearby were using grappling guns to lift themselves swiftly to the top, something that would be necessary if the cry sounded and Morioch attacked.

Finally he reached the top. Silvery light glistened in the east, knotting up his stomach. He knew what Blade had said last night, but Morioch would soon be back to hear a final answer. All these men could die because of him.

“You look like ’ell.” Rip’s deep voice jolted Leo out of his distraction. The giant watched the gleaming horde below. He had a flask of blood in his hand and was nonchalantly sipping from it.

Leo leaned on the ramparts beside him. Two hundred metaljackets, if he wasn’t mistaken, with more of them coming in overnight. Gold plate gleamed at the back, identifying the spitfires. The rest were common automatons, the least valuable of the prince consort’s steel army.

“I’ve been better.” The tightly packed alleyways surrounding the rookery gave them a slight advantage. Morioch had flooded the streets he could see with metaljackets, but they’d be forced to attack the walls in narrow units.

“Blade’s ordered ’ouses pulled down in the streets out there to block the way,” Rip replied, offering him the flask. “That’s where ’e is now. They got to come at us from only one o’ three places now.”

Leo took a pull from the flask. Spiced blud-wein with something far more potent added.
Christ.
His dry throat rebelled, and he coughed and handed it back. “A clear sign he’s not going to surrender me.”

“That leech knows ’e ain’t.” Rip shrugged, his steel shoulder joint rippling with the movement. A cutaway leather jerkin hid his massive chest but revealed the biomechanical arm he’d refused to hide since his marriage to Esme. Fingerless leather gloves concealed his hands, gloves with razors cut into the back of them. A single punch could kill a man. “We ain’t ’idin’ our intentions none, and ’e’ll be mad as ’ops after last night.”

“He’ll come and put on a show.” Morioch always liked to perform. Leo pointed to a place in the square where the sun would hit, come dawn. “Probably there.”

Rip eyed the expanse. “Could ’it ’im from ’ere.”

“Won’t kill him. He’s a blue blood, and if I know him, he’ll be wearing heavily reinforced armor the likes of what he wore last night.”

Rip spat over the wall. “Ain’t no bricky lad. Got a streak o’ yellow wide as London Bridge.”

“He’s not here to fight. He’s here to crush you. There’s no honor gained in engaging an enemy that’s beneath you, and that’s how he sees this.” That’s how most of the Echelon saw the human classes, the mechs, and especially Blade. A mistake on their part, Leo had long thought, but then he’d always been considered a progressive. No matter how many times Caine had tried to force his views on him, Leo had never been able to conceal his curiosity.

Why crush the human classes beneath their heel? As far as he could see, it only stirred resentment. The colonies seemed to have some sort of system in place where their blue bloods worked side by side with the human classes. Why couldn’t England do that?

Why
does
a
mechanical
hand
make
a
man
less
than
human? Why should only the legitimate sons of highly ranked lords be gifted with the blood rites? Why them? Why not others?

A thousand whys over the years.

All those questions he’d asked himself. Plans he’d dreamed of. Changes to the way the Echelon controlled the country. Swept away in the ashes of a single day.

He stared dully over the scene. The rows of automatons were almost eerie in the predawn stillness. Men would shift and shuffle in place, but not these.

Leo frowned. A single frequency to control them… Each handler’s control device was specifically coded to their stable of ten, but the frequency remained the same. “Unless…”

“What?” Rip asked.

Leo shook his head, scraping at the stubble on his jaw. “Nobody’s managed to bring back one of the handlers’ control devices?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m just…thinking.” He paced along the wall, staring at the Echelon’s army. “Several of my business enterprises are in communications, and the recent invention of radio frequency and telegraphs. It’s the way of the future, but progress is slow. Interruptions affect the efficiency of radio frequency all of the time. The frequency must be pitched precisely…” He trailed off, catching a glimpse of Rip’s expression.

“I’m listenin’,” Rip assured him. “You’re sayin’ change the frequency and it’ll drive the automatons barmy?”

“Mmm.” Possibly. He understood the basics of how the metaljackets worked, though warfare had never been his priority. “The frequency resonates with a chip in the metaljackets’ heads.”

“Off with their ’eads, then?”

“Maybe.” Both of them eyed the heavily plated steel helms staring back at them. “Take out the handlers and you crush the army. The Echelon’s been aware of that for a long time, so the handlers will be heavily guarded. Or could we create something? Something to interfere with the radio waves? Perhaps to change them?” He’d need one of the Echelon’s carefully guarded blacksmiths to do it—or perhaps one of the mechs who worked steel in the enclaves.

No.
This kind of thing was most likely beyond them. Leo slammed his fist down on the wall. It could work if he had the right tools, the right people. “Anyone know how to work steel here? Any escaped mechs? Or a…a scientist…”

Honoria.
The closest thing he had to a scientist. Sir Artemus Todd had been a lauded member of the Royal Society. Most who spoke of him called him a genius, and although his main field of work had been trying to discover a cure for the craving, there were rumors he’d dabbled in mechanics, creating plans for several highly advanced automatons and a pistol he’d modified with firebolt bullets that could take even a blue blood down. Honoria had apprenticed with him as a young woman.

Leo had seen her in action. Hell, she’d engineered the vaccine her father had discovered, using it on Leo’s thralls and offering him all of her notes to present to the Royal Society so that the vaccine could be delivered to the masses. It was the first step in loosening the prince consort’s stranglehold on the Echelon after he’d discovered a device that had been thought, at the time, to be the only cure for the craving.

For the first time, Leo’s head felt clear. “I need one of the frequency control devices.”

“Dawn ain’t far. They’ll ’ave ’em locked up tighter than a nun’s drawers.”

“I’ll need a few men then. Who?” Rip knew Blade’s lads better than he would.

Rip turned and put his fingers into his mouth to whistle sharply. Heads jerked up all along the wall, but he waved them down. “Send for Charlie, Lark, and Tin Man,” he bellowed.

Charlie.
A cold ring circled the back of Leo’s neck. “I’m not taking the boy into that.”

“Lad’s a craver and ’e’s a right prig. Got fingers on ’im like one o’ them concert pianists. Can fan you up before you e’en know ’e’s there.”

“And if I get him killed, Honoria will strip the hide off me.” Not to mention that he already owed the lad an unrepayable debt.

“Don’t let ’im spill any claret, then.” Rip’s gaze was merciless. “I can’t leave these walls, not ’til Blade gets back. And you want the best.” A faint tip of the head. “’E’s the best. Devilish cocky ’bout it, but ’e’s damned good.”

Leo ground his teeth together.

“You think I’d send ’im if I thought ’e wouldn’t come back? Blood don’t mean much to most o’ us ’ere, but you see this?” Rip flexed the inside of his wrist, revealing the tattoo there. “Lad’s as much a part o’ me family as ’e is yours.”

More so. “Fine, I’ll take him.”

Wasn’t as if they all wouldn’t be among it when the war began anyway, but somehow, commanding troops on a battlefield was far easier when they weren’t your flesh and blood.

* * *

“Need help, kitten?” Charlie called, leaning over the edge of the rooftop.

“’Ow ’bout you sod off?” Lark snarled, ignoring the hand the boy extended and scaling the wall as if she were part monkey. The girl had been Charlie’s almost constant companion ever since he arrived at the rookery.

“Tsk, tsk. Such language.” Charlie sounded almost precisely like he was mimicking Honoria. “From a lady too.” He grinned and danced out of the way.

Lark flicked something from her wrist—the small steel whip she carried at her hip—its end lashing around Charlie’s boot and sending him sprawling on the roof. He hit it with an
oof
.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Charlie asked.

“Needed somethin’ to deal with impertinent gits who think they’re a great deal cleverer ’n they are.”

Charlie found his feet and winced. “It shocked me.”

“Wouldn’t know much about that,” she replied. “I’m just a slum brat with—”

“If you two don’t shut up,” Leo ground out, dragging himself onto the roof, “I’m going to wring both your necks.”

The pair fell silent. They’d been bickering since they left the wall, treating the whole thing like a romp in the park. If they hadn’t been so bloody good at what they did, he’d have sent them back to Rip an hour ago.

He’d started this venture with the idea of protecting them, keeping them safely out of the way while he and Tin Man did the heavy work. Charlie had considered his plan carefully, waited all of two seconds, then sketched out an alternative idea that sounded utterly ruthless, insanely dangerous, and like something nobody in their right mind would come up with.

Before he knew it, Leo was swearing under his breath as he tried to keep up with the two of them. Charlie had snatched two of the handlers’ control devices before anyone even knew they were there, and Lark led the diversion while Leo and Tin Man got Charlie the hell out of there.

Leo had to remind himself that they’d both lived, though he wasn’t certain how long it was going to be before he changed that state of affairs. Pausing at the base of the wall, he picked up the grappling guns they’d hidden before they ventured out. Charlie aimed his grappling gun and triggered the hook, watching it soar into the sky. Lark barely had a chance to grab hers before Charlie slung an arm around her hips and triggered the recoil. “Allow me, milady.”

With a feminine curse and a masculine laugh, the pair of them sailed up over the wall that circled Whitechapel.

“When did I get so bloody old?” Leo growled as Tin Man handled his grappling device.

The man was mute—someone had cut out his tongue years ago—but his eyes were eloquent enough. He clapped a hand on Leo’s shoulder twice, a faint smile on his scarred lips as he vanished after them. As far as Leo was aware, the man was some kind of father or uncle to Lark.