Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,1

asked before if he wanted to become a blue blood. In their dark little world, the threat of death or crippling injury was a constant and the craving virus could heal anything short of decapitation. Still, he’d always said no before.

Until Blade whispered the one little thing that might have changed his mind. “If you don’t want it, blink. If you do, squeeze me fingers. But know that this’ll devastate Esme.”

Esme. Blade’s housekeeper. Christ. In that moment he’d seen a flash of her serious face, with the slashing dark wings of her brows, and Rip couldn’t have said no despite himself. He’d always kept his distance from her but the sudden hot flare of yearning – the urge to see her just once more – was too strong for him. And so he’d squeezed Blade’s hand.

The next he knew he was flat on his back in his own bed, with Esme straddling his hips, her firm, no-nonsense fingers going to the buttons at her throat. The other half of the equation began to sink in. Blood. And as soon as he realized what she was there for, a fierce aching need had burned through him like white-hot fire, draining away the colour from his vision until all he could smell was the violet water on her skin and see the heady tick of her pulse in her throat. Hands on her, yanking her close. And Blade holding him back. “Easy now, lad. You don’t want to frighten ‘er, do you?”

The craving virus had healed him all right. But he’d never thought about the other edge of the coin. The fierce hunger he could barely control. Especially around her.

“You don’t need me to come with you?” Jem asked somewhat nervously and Rip realized he’d been staring.

He gave a rough shake of his head. “I’ll check on it.”

The lad tossed him a tremulous smile, then scurried into a nearby doorway and hunkered down to watch.

Hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, Rip began to cross the street, sliding in the wet slush. The scent of roasting chestnuts drifted past and raucous laughter sounded nearby. Someone had hung a bedraggled strand of holly in their window. Christmas, he remembered, was nearly upon them.

Not the sort of thing the blue bloods of the Echelon celebrated, since the Church had excommunicated them, but it lingered in the human remnants of the population. A defiant gesture. The ruling Echelon might have burned the churches in England and arrested any caught praying or on consecrated ground, but they couldn’t police everything.

Nor could they arrest half of London.

The chestnut seller’s laughter wasn’t quite enough to hush the almost silent footstep that followed him. Rip glanced down beneath his lashes, a shiv sliding into his hand. He kept it tucked against the heavy cup of his palm, hiding it low against his thigh. As he turned the corner, stepping into the shadowed alcove of the alley, he pressed his back against the wall and waited.

The shadow behind him lengthened and Rip stepped forward, slashing out with the blade. He caught a hint of musk in his nose and pulled the blow, snarling under his breath. “Bloody ‘ell.”

A hand caught his wrist. Rip glared up into the unnatural golden eyes of a tall young man, tempted for one moment to push back. But that was the hunger in him, the fury. And if he pushed too far, he knew who would end this fight the victor.

Not even a blue blood could take on a verwulfen without consequences. In the strange berserker furies that overtook them they were practically invincible.

Will shoved away from him. “What are you doin’ here?”

“I ought ask you the same question.” Rip sheathed the knife, anger a slow-burn in his blood. He knew the answer of course. Blade must have sent Will to watch him. Make sure he didn’t lose control in the middle of the rookery and spill blood on the dirty gleam of the icy slush. A shiver ran down his spine, his mouth watering. Tempting. Just to give in, just once…

“Thought you might need a hand,” Will muttered, heat burnishing his cheeks. He hadn’t expected to get caught.

“Aye,” Rip said, flexing the steel grip of his fingers. “You’re about ten years too late.”

A faint smile curled over the young man’s mouth. Then Will stepped past, nostrils flaring as he surveyed the alley. “What you up to?”

“Jem Saddler said Liza Kent ain’t been sighted near on three days. No sign o’ ‘er old man