Charlie escorted her to a coffeehouse in the next borough, and indicated to one of the booths at the back, where they'd be granted a modicum of privacy.

At this time of night—several hours before dawn—there were few people about. Night was a blue blood's time, and despite the strict laws currently governing the nation, the commoners of London still thought it best not to chance fate and risk tempting a craver with the beating pulse of blood in their veins when the moon was out.

"Felt just like old times," Charlie said, as Lark shrugged out of the coat he'd draped over her shoulders. He flashed her a grin. "You, me, the chase. I forgot how good it is to work with you."

Lark had spent the past several minutes trying to compose herself. She was not going to allow herself to feel the same, even though the blood still rushed through her veins. Five minutes with Charlie and she was once again taking foolish risks and letting him rile her.

And worse, she'd enjoyed it.

Not to mention her distraction had almost gotten them killed.

"You were going to tell me what sudden urge drove you to seek me out," Lark suggested.

His smile faded. "You still blame me for what happened the night of the revolution."

The last thing she wanted to discuss was the night her entire life had been torn apart.

Almost four years ago, the humans, mechs, and rogue blue bloods of London had risen up against the cruel prince consort who had once ruled with an iron fist. Charlie had wanted to join the fight, and Lark found herself swept along because she could never resist one of his schemes.

And wherever she went, Tin Man went too.

Lark rubbed her chest, where the scar of the bullet still remained. A half-inch to the left and she wouldn't be here today. "I don't blame you for what happened. Tin Man and I made the choice to follow you."

"And he died, because of me," Charlie said grimly.

In her dreams she could still see that moment when she'd been lying on the cobblestones, gasping for air and choking on blood. And the man who'd shot her—one of the prince consort's Falcons—had turned his pistol on Charlie.

It had been a moment that lasted a lifetime. The scream died on her lips as Tin Man came out of nowhere, crashing into Charlie just as the pistol fired.

And then her world went black as her blood loss overwhelmed her.

When she woke, the only man she'd ever known as a father was gone. Dead. And Charlie had infected her with the craving virus, which was the only thing that had saved her life. She hadn't even been able to say goodbye.

"Lark, I'm so, so sor—"

"I don't blame you," she said sharply. "But I don't want to talk about it. It's in the past. And if you're going to waste my time then I'm leaving." She pressed her fingers to her temples, the world flashing into shadows around her as the craving rose, waking at the surge of emotion. Being in his company these days always woke the darker half of the predator within her. No, she didn't blame him for Tin Man's death, but a part of her couldn't quite forgive him for abandoning her in the wake of her transformation. It was easier to hold him at bay now than to let him know how much that had hurt her. "You said you had important business to discuss. Well, discuss it."

Charlie opened his mouth, but paused as the server appeared.

"Evening, sirs." The woman smiled at Charlie, evidently mistaking Lark for a gent in her breeches, cravat, and waistcoat. "May I take your orders?"

Charlie ordered coffee, and then tipped his head toward her. "And hot chocolate for the lady."

Thought he knew her, did he? Lark smiled at the server. "No chocolate, thanks. I'll have tea. Black tea."

Charlie leaned back in the booth as the woman left. "You always ordered chocolate."

"It seems I've lost the taste for it since my transformation." Now all she craved was blood.

Charlie frowned. "Can we just talk for a moment?"

"Fine, then. Talk. How did you find me?"

"Blade told me which crew you were working with. I bribed Mick into giving me the details of the place you were casing."

"How the hell did Mick know?"

"Foley, I presume."

Bloody Foley and his careless mouth. "And what do you want?"

"Maybe I missed you," he pointed out.

She knew exactly how that felt.

She'd been sixteen—pretending to be fourteen—when Charlie burst into her life. At first, the idea of having another person her age in the house made her intensely curious, but Charlie had been newly infected with the craving and struggling to control it. Blade had locked him in his room to make sure he couldn't attack anyone else in the house if he lost control.

It had been weeks before her curiosity overwhelmed her natural caution.

She'd snuck into his room and found a boy sleeping. Pulling back the covers revealed a tangle of knotted blond curls, pale skin, silky dark lashes, and the face of an absolute angel.

Most of the boys she knew were dirty and smelled and thought her a male, so she'd not had to contend with their attentions. She'd never wanted them either.

But the second she'd laid eyes on Charlie, there'd been a flush of something she'd never felt before.

And when his lashes had fluttered, revealing he'd been awake all along, she'd lost herself in the crystalline blue of his eyes.

It had been horrible.

She'd actually flushed with heat, certain she was blushing.

"Who are you?" he'd asked.

"The bane of your existence."

"Careful now," Charlie had whispered, staring intently at her without moving. "Haven't they told you I might try to rip out your throat?"

"You can try," she'd replied, with all the bravado of a young girl suddenly faced with a handsome boy. She'd slipped her hand into her pocket and then showed him the set of brass knuckles she'd slipped on. "But I wouldn't advise it, 'specially if you like your teeth where they are."

Interest dawned in his face, and he slowly sat up. "You're not afraid of me."

"You think you're the first craver Blade's locked up in 'ere?"

"What's your name?" he'd asked.

"Lark."

"That's a girl's name."

"That's because I'm a girl."

And whatever foolish feelings had begun blooming within her died a short death as she realized he saw exactly what everyone else saw when they looked at her: a grubby little boy in oversized clothes with razored hair.

"Aren't you going to say you missed me too?" Charlie prodded, and Lark came back to the here and now, realizing she was still staring into those very blue eyes.

"I've been busy," she demurred. "Barely give you a thought at all."

He rested his arms on the table and leaned closer. "Did you know you always look at my nose instead of my eyes when you're lying? And it's 'gave you.' Honoria would wince if she heard that."

His older sister, Honoria, had been giving Lark elocution lessons for years in order to strip the Cockney from her tongue. "It will open up more opportunities for you in life," Honoria liked to say.

Lark'd thought it a laugh at first, until she realized there was value in being able to speak as the Echelon did.

For one thing, it was easier to get closer to them. If you sounded like you came from the East End, people started to protect their pockets.

Opportunities, indeed.

"Not all of us had the privilege of being raised in a duke's house. But thank you for correcting me."

This time it was Charlie's turn to wince. "I'm floundering."

Their drinks arrived, and Lark tugged the small silver flask from her waistcoat and poured some blood into her cup. She smiled evilly over the top of it as she sipped. "Yes, you are. It seems you can't charm your way out of everything. But do go on. It's amusing to watch the Great Charlie Todd put his foot in his mouth. Still miss me?"

"Every damned day. Especially now." His gaze flickered to hers, and he drummed his fingers on the table. "I need a thief. A good one."

Ah. Business.

"Then look in the mirror," Lark said. "There's nothing I can do that you can't."

"Let me start at the beginning." He began flipping a small golden orb over and under his thumb. In anyone else, fidgeting would have been a sign of nerves, but Charlie was always restless. He seemed to be buoyed with more energy than his skin could possibly hold, and sitting still seemed impossible for him. "You know I've been working for the Duke of Malloryn for several months now?"

Lark crossed her arms, unwilling to let him know she'd been quietly keeping an eye upon him. "So I've heard."

"There's a team of us. We call ourselves the Company of Rogues, and we were working under the Duke of Malloryn to locate an unknown conspirator trying to tear the queen from the throne."

Lark's eyebrow rose. Though London was still striving to recover from the mess the prince consort had left it in, few could argue the queen wasn’t a vast improvement.

To lose her would be to cast London back into chaos.

"Two weeks ago, we managed to discover who's behind the plot against the throne during an assassination attempt on the queen. Lord Balfour is—"

"Isn't he dead?" Everyone had heard of the former prince consort's spymaster, but she was fairly certain the Duke of Malloryn had killed him the night of the revolution.

"Not dead enough. He's been hiding in the shadows ever since, plotting the queen’s—and Malloryn's—downfall. We managed to thwart his attempt on the queen's life, but his lackeys kidnapped the duke in the process.

"So Gemma Townsend—she's the head of the Rogues—has put together a rescue mission. We've got information leading us to the duke's possible whereabouts—we've even got a bloody invitation—but getting Malloryn out is going to be difficult. It's going to have to be a game of sleight-of-hand played out in the open if we've any hope of getting anywhere near Malloryn without getting our throats cut, and that's where you come in. We need the best of the best, and that's you, Lark. I need you. I need your help."

"What makes you think the duke is still alive?"

"Balfour wants him to suffer."

"I steal things. Not people."

"You're the best," he repeated, staring into her eyes. "And you know when we work together, it's magic. I barely have to tell you what I'm thinking. You've got experience in breaking into veritable fortresses. There's no lock you can't pick, no wall you can't scale. I'm working with a team of spies, bounty hunters, and ex-Nighthawks. They're experts when it comes to finding people and solving crimes, but they don't pull off jobs like this. I need you."

On one hand, it was tempting; working with Charlie was magic. There was something indescribable about taking on the most dangerous, riskiest jobs in the business and carrying them out slick as a whistle that stirred her pride.

On the other hand, she'd be working with Charlie again.

And the last time they worked together, she lost the only father she'd ever known and nearly died.

"We don't know precisely where they're keeping Malloryn. So not only do we have to locate him, we're going to have to rescue him with all eyes upon us.

"And if I were Balfour, I'd lock Malloryn up so tight it would be an almost impossible break and enter," Charlie told her, the corner of his mouth lifting in an almost irresistible smile. "My friend Byrnes thinks we can't do it. Help me prove him wrong."

It was so incredibly tempting.

He was saying all the right things, and it stirred her competitive nature like nothing else.

"No." She sunk enough steel into her voice that Charlie flinched. Lark pushed to her feet, ignoring her bloodied tea. "My answer is no."

"Why not?"

She tossed him the coat he'd loaned her. "Because when I work with you, I become someone else. I take risks, even when I know better. It's all about the thrill of the challenge, the adventure, the chase."

And I forget everything when you smile at me.

"You've never been one to play it safe," he said, in an incredulous voice. "Half the time we got into trouble as children, it was because of something you'd planned."

All she could think of was Tin Man's warning: You cannot afford to draw attention, Irinka. You must be small. Quiet. Unnoticeable. Small is safe.

"I'm sorry." She started walking away.

"Do svidanya, Lark," Charlie murmured, behind her.

For a second she didn't think she'd heard him correctly. The floor dropped out from beneath her feet.

Lark spun around. "What did you just say?"

Charlie flashed her one of his old smiles as he stood; it lit the world, blinding in its sincerity. "Gemma's been teaching me some Russian."

"Why?"

His blue eyes locked on her, and he shrugged. "Don't worry about it. You don't want to be involved, so I won't involve you."

Veritable fortresses. Impossible break and enter.

There was not a damned castle or bank in England she couldn't crack, if she'd half a mind.

But what if he wasn't talking about England?

Her blood ran cold.

"Charlie!" She strode toward him, snatching at his sleeve. "Where is the job?"

"Russia."

"Are you insane?" He had to be. The Crimson Court wasn't the Echelon. It had been considered uncouth among the Echelon to slit a thrall's throat even in the days before the revolution; the Blood had no such compunctions.

If you weren't Blood, you were a tool.

And if you weren't useful, you were prey.

"No," she whispered, her fingers curling in his sleeve as if she could somehow shackle him. "Promise me you won't leave these shores."

He pried her fingers loose.

"The Duke of Malloryn thinks no one's coming to rescue him, Lark. It's been two weeks. Balfour will have him in his clutches by now, and he hates Malloryn. I cannot just leave him there. Malloryn would come for me. That's what a Rogue does."

"I can't come with you."

Not to Russia.

She'd sworn an oath of blood to Tin Man that she'd never go back. She'd stood over his grave and promised him he hadn't sacrificed his life for nothing. She'd stop taking risks. She'd try to live her life the way he'd wanted for her.

Charlie pulled free. "That's your choice. But I'm making mine. If I can't have the best, then I'll have to find someone else to watch my back."

"You manipulative son of a bitch."

"Now, now, Lark."

He turned toward the door, leaving her stricken.

"We leave in two days from the airfields in Battersea," he called over his shoulder as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "At dawn. If you want in, don't be late. I won't wait for you."

And Lark shivered as all the ghosts of her past started laughing at her.

Lark paced the wash chambers as her bath filled, unable to calm herself. Not even the haul of gems from the Golorukov job could distract her. She'd pushed the entire lot into Foley's hands without even bothering to evaluate them.

"What the hell is he thinking?" she hissed.

A job in Russia?

Taking on the entire Crimson Court?

Lord Balfour?

If Charlie were lucky he'd only have his throat cut, his body dumped in a shallow grave. If he was unlucky....

Suddenly she couldn't breathe. All she could see was fire. A manor burning. A little girl crying out, "Mamochka!"

But mama was not going to come. Not this time.

Damn it. She'd thought she'd left Russia and all her nightmares behind.

A decisive rap came at the door, slicing through the memories. Lark forced the world into focus again.

"Maid service," a voice called.

Meddling bloody males, that's what it was.

But there was no point ignoring him. This was his house, after all.

Lark turned the tap off, trying to contain her nervousness. Blue bloods had no personal scent, but Blade could read her like a book.

"Come in."

The door opened, revealing a figure dressed in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a vibrant red velvet waistcoat that fit his lean form like a glove. An unlit cheroot dangled from his long, elegant fingers as he rested one arm against the doorjamb. Blade didn't smoke in the house anymore now that he was married. Honoria didn't approve. But he often carried a cheroot, just to smell it on occasion.

"Blade," she greeted.

A shabby old cat wove around his boots, and Blade leaned down and picked him up. Puss was getting on in years, and his rookery jaunts were limited now to the Warren and the bricked yard out back, but as his yellow eyes locked on her and he purred, a new scar across his face showed there was still some fight left in the old bugger.

"Have you been fighting again?" she cooed, scratching the tom under his chin. "What did I say about picking fights these days?"

"The ol' man about town's got to keep up 'is swagger," Blade said, "or all the other toms'll think they can just slink on in and steal 'is turf."

"You would know."

Blade moved so fast she barely saw it, clipping the edge of her ear. "I ain't that old. Yet."

"Aren't we celebrating your fifty-sixth birthday next month?" Lark asked innocently. He looked barely thirty, but that was thanks to the craving virus.

Nobody was quite certain what a blue blood's natural life expectancy was, but some were nearing their second century.

"Bloody children," he growled, rolling his eyes. "Smart mouths on the lot o' you. When you're a blue blood, fifty ain't that old."

Lark sighed. "You ain't here for the chatter. What d'you want?"

Blade set his fingertips under her chin and tilted her face up. "Any reason you're wearin' a rut in the floorboards? ’Eard young Charlie was askin' for you."

Here it came.

Lark pushed away. Growing up in the Warren felt somewhat akin to having half a dozen grumpy, overprotective uncles who meddled in everything she did. It drove her halfway to Bedlam as a young girl, and yet, there was a part of her that wished she could curl up in Blade's lap again and tell him everything.

The Devil of Whitechapel was the most feared man in London, but she'd never felt safer than in his arms.

"Aye. It's Charlie," she replied, running her fingers through the bathwater absently. Careful now. "He wants my help with a dangerous job."

"Dangerous?" Blade's voice sharpened. Charlie was Honoria's younger brother, and any threat to Honoria's peace of mind or happiness would be met with a knife.

Lark spilled the little she knew.

"The Duke o' Malloryn, eh?" Blade scrubbed at his mouth as he set the cat down. "Thought ‘e was in Norway, makin’ nice with our Scandinavian verwulfen friends. They been ‘oldin’ council meetin’s for the last two weeks, ‘til ‘e gets back, and Lynch’s been coverin’ ‘is duties." He narrowed his green eyes on her. "But that ain't what's got you sweatin'. What's wrong?"

"The job's in Russia."

Silence.

She risked a look over her shoulder.

"No." The word was definite. Final. "When I took you and Tin Man off the streets, 'e sold me 'is loyalty on one condition: I protect you. I keep you safe, and 'e'd lay down 'is life for me if need be." Blade's voice softened with menace. "Well, 'e did. Workin' for me cost 'im everythin' in the end. I owe 'im, Lark. And I always pay me debts. You ain't goin' to Russia."

Until that moment, she hadn't realized her decision had been made.

Lark tipped her chin up. She loved him, truly she did, but.... "How are you going to stop me?"

Blade stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The sound it made echoed like a jail cell slamming shut. "You really want to play that card?"

"Blade." Suddenly she couldn't breathe. "I can't let him go alone. Charlie doesn't have the faintest clue what he's walking into. The Crimson Court will eat him alive."

"Thought you still weren't really talkin' to 'im?"

She flushed. They'd had words about that over the years. "Doesn't mean I want to see him hurt."

Or worse.

Dead.

"Do you think you could talk him out of it?" she asked.

Blade scrubbed at his stubble. "Boy's more stubborn'n you are when 'e wants to be." His brow twitched. "Don't know where 'e gets that from."

Her temper flared. No talk of locking Charlie up and throwing away the key. "How come he gets a choice?"

"Because 'e ain't likely to get distracted with thoughts of revenge."

Lark froze.

She'd never truly worked out how much Blade knew of her past circumstances. There'd been hints, here and there, but he'd never brought it up.

How much had Tin Man told him?

"I just want to protect Charlie," she finally said. "I'm not looking for trouble. Hell, Blade. I know how dangerous the Blood are. I can't afford to provoke trouble. If I had my way, I'd never set foot there again, but I don't. If neither of us can convince him not to take this damned job, then someone has to stop him from getting his throat slit. I won't even have time to think of revenge."

"Promise me?" His voice held an edge to it.

"I promise."

"Swear on Tin Man's grave?"

Lark looked away furiously. "I swear."

"Fine. I'll allow it."

Lark's head shot up. "You will?"

"On one condition...."