"COR BLIMEY, IF it isn't Liam Kincaid, back from the dead!" a voice bellowed as Kincaid strode inside the White Hart pub.

Half a dozen heads turned, and Kincaid found himself swamped by big, burly men who clapped him on the back and ruffled his hair.

He mock punched Willie Lewes, a young mech who'd been under his command in the enclaves, and made his way through the crowd of men he'd once known—those who'd shared the same sentence he had. John Hayes, Jem Stanton, Michael Hargreaves.

And... Xander McGraw.

His friend rested both elbows on the bar and watched him come. There was a twinkle in Xander's green eyes, but he also looked like he had a bone to pick.

"Back from the dead?" They clasped hands, and Kincaid thumped Xander on the back, squeezing his friend against his chest.

"Well, who'd have known otherwise?" the loud Scot demanded, shoving him in the chest. "Haven't seen your ugly face in months."

"Been busy." He slumped on the bar, raking a hand through his hair and looking around. He'd missed this life—these men. He was a different person here, sure of himself in ways he wasn't when he served the Company of Rogues.

"Too busy to come to my fucking wedding?" Xander asked, snagging a tankard of ale and glaring at him over the top of it. "Thought you were a friend, Kincaid."

Then Xander strolled away, leaving him standing there alone at the bar.

"Ignore him," said a cool, feminine voice. "He'll cool down."

"Wise words." Kincaid shot a smile toward the owner of the voice.

Maggie Doyle, the woman who'd helped him run the enclave with an iron fist, wiped down the bar, regarding him with a steady expression. She'd seen both the best and worst of him over the years, and there were few souls he could trust as much as her. "Long time, Kincaid."

"You look well. Marriage agrees with you."

Maggie found Xander in the crowd, and the faintest of smiles curved her lips. She'd softened since the revolution, he thought. She wouldn't have smiled before it. "Surprisingly, yes. Though I fought him to the bitter end."

Across the tavern Xander threw his head back and laughed.

The pair of them shared a smile. "He doesn't know what the word 'no' means," Kincaid said gruffly.

"He thinks it means 'try harder,'" she said, and poured Kincaid a shot of whiskey. "He wore me down with his courting. But he's angry you weren't at the wedding." Maggie lifted her snifter of whiskey. "Planned to have you stand up there with him."

Kincaid tapped his own whiskey against hers. "I was dodging vampires, if you'd believe. Heard it went well."

They both threw the whiskey back.

"Dodging vampires?" she asked, the second she got her breath back. "Real actual vampires?"

"Have I ever lied to you, Maggie Doyle?"

"Maggie McGraw," Xander corrected, slipping around the bar and slinging an arm over her shoulders. "And you won't like the answer to that, Kincaid."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Behave—the pair of you." Grabbing a tray, she set four tankards of ale on it, then made her way around the bar with one last incinerating look at the pair of them. "If you destroy my bar, I'll make both your lives hell."

Then she was gone.

"You keep your eyes off my wife," Xander said with a smile, but his eyes were cool.

"You've got nothing to worry about. Maggie always was too smart to fall for my charms," Kincaid replied, pouring a second shot of whiskey.

"Aye, well. Would have said the same, until recently."

They clinked glasses together. Xander owned the word “brash,” but there was an undercurrent of doubt beneath his dazzling smile. Kincaid frowned. "She wouldn't have married you if she didn't love you. You know that, right?"

"Took an awful lot of convincing," Xander grumbled. "She always liked you."

"Maggie...." He almost said, was a sister when I needed one, but that only dredged up memories of Agatha, and he was already awash with guilt. "Maggie knew me too well."

"So when you said vampires...."

"I meant vampires," he replied, and shuddered. "Sort of thing gives a man nightmares."

"But where have you been?" Xander demanded. "I asked Orla, but she's not been sayin', and there's word you were working a mechanical job over in Southwark, but by the look of that nose it's seen some recent action, and... vampires?"

"It's complicated," he replied quietly, "and I don't have leave to discuss it."

"I'm your best friend, K."

"With anyone," he said softly, and Xander's lips thinned.

"Aye, well fuck you too."

This was what he hated about this line of work. "I can't talk about it, but if I could, you'd be the first to know. I just wanted a night away from it to clear my head, a night spent in the cups with some old friends."

"What can you tell me then?" Xander challenged.

"There's a woman," he said bluntly, "and she's getting under my skin."

"Well, there's a first. Can you talk about her?"

"Aye," he said, exhaling sharply, before words about Ava started spilling from his mouth, almost as if he'd needed someone to confess to. He was babbling, and he couldn't help himself. "She's smart, beautiful, shy, and bookish. But she's kind too. The type of woman who rescues abandoned kittens. And utterly oblivious to her own qualities. There was a man today who was flirting with her, and she had no idea." He shook his head. "Not a fucking clue."

"Sounds like she's got you wrapped around her little finger. Though she doesn't seem like your usual sort."

You have no idea.

Xander, wisely, poured him a whiskey. "So what's the problem?"

"She's never been with a man, she's in love with someone else, and she's a romantic through and through. She sees me as an experiment, I think. A no-risk affair." And while the idea had seemed perfect at first—something uncomplicated—it was bothering him now.

He had to keep reminding himself he had no future. Nothing to offer her. Keep it nice and uncomplicated, and have a little fun. That was the plan.

The plan had failed.

"I like her," he admitted. "Too much."

Xander snorted. "If you tell me you're falling in love with her, I will gladly punch some sense into you."

Kincaid shot him a look.

"Shit," Xander said, snagging the whiskey bottle and drinking straight out of it. He wiped his mouth, and then handed the bottle to Kincaid. "All yours, old son. You clearly need it more than me."

Kincaid glared at the three-quarters-full bottle, and then sighed and tipped it up. "I'm not falling in love with her."

A look.

"I'm not," he repeated. "I know where this ends—no, I know it has an end." He scraped his hand over his face, looking down at his mech fingers drumming on the counter. Sometimes he could still almost feel the actual hand. "I'm the next victim of the Kincaid curse, whether you believe in it or not, and she... she's got her whole life ahead of her."

Years and years. He'd almost started to forget what she truly was, but this brought it into perspective. Ava wasn't immortal—no blue blood was—but sometimes it seemed like it. Some of the older blue bloods were over a century and a half old, still wearing their powdered wigs and rouged faces from the Georgian era. He'd seen them from a distance, and while they were slowly aging, they still looked barely old enough to be his father.

Ava had a good century ahead of her. He had a dozen years at most. Maybe more, maybe less. And they weren't going to be kind years.

"Have you told her?" Xander asked, and then sighed. "Of course you haven't. That's why you're here."

"It's got nothing to do with it," he growled. "We argued. I needed some time to clear my head."

"What did you argue about?"

"Nothing." Nothing he could mention here anyway. Kincaid rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No more talk of Ava. Tell me all your news. What have you been up to? What mischief have the lads been causing?"

Xander's gaze shifted, raking over the crowd as he leaned closer. "Heard there's something brewing on the winds."

Kincaid nursed his whiskey bottle. "Something specific?"

"Something... bloody."

Damn it. "The revolution's over, Xander. Don't get yourself killed." His gaze flicked to Maggie. "Not when you just got handed the world on a platter."

Xander eyed her too. "Some things are worth fighting for. Maggie's one of them. But so's a man's right to live his life freely, and to see his children grow without threat of a leash around their necks—"

"We earned our peace," he countered. "The human queen sits on the throne now, and this"—he held up his mech hand and waggled its fingers—"no longer denies me even basic human rights."

"The same queen who signed off on the Blood Tax bill?" Xander demanded. "The same queen who saw the Packenham riot crushed in favor of her blue blood friends?"

The same arguments he'd used. Kincaid shook his head. Funny how now he was the voice of reason. "It was never going to be easy, damn you. Three races living side by side.... It will take time to understand how that works."

"Well, maybe there should be one race left standing? The human one."

Kincaid grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him close. "Tell me you haven't been joining those riots."

Xander brushed him off with a careless gesture. "You might have forgotten what you are, K, but me and the rest of the lads haven't." Unlacing his shirt cuff, he revealed the small tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the same one Kincaid wore on his hip. A branded H. "Humanists through and through, and we signed on to crush those pasty-faced cravers, no matter what it took."

"I'm working for them," he blurted.

"What?" Xander froze.

"I told you, it's complicated. But there's a threat to the alliance between our three races, and I got dragged into it to help keep the peace."

Xander swore under his breath, looking stunned. "What happened to you, K? Working for the blue bloods? Who are you? They're poison."

He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Xander had a point. Who was he now? What was he fighting for? At first the only reason he'd joined the COR was because there was a threat to everything he'd fought for, and also because Malloryn could give him a fighting chance at avoiding the Kincaid curse, but now...?

It was different now he knew a few blue bloods as actual people. Christ, Byrnes was smug and arrogant, but had saved his life; Charlie didn't have a mean bone in him; Gemma gave new meaning to the word seductress, but she was dangerously protective of Ava; and Ava, well, she was the hardest one to categorize.

"Do you know what it feels like to have someone look at you as though you're a monster?"

Ava was the gentlest soul he'd ever known.

"They ain't all bad," he said gruffly, and Xander cuffed him over the back of the head.

"Maggie," he bellowed, "my man needs another drink! He's speaking in fuckin' riddles."

It took a moment, but suddenly there was an ale in his hand, and Maggie peering at him worriedly.

"Kincaid's gotten in with the blue bloods," Xander snarled, urging him to drink up. "The man's lost his mind."

"Keep your voice down," Maggie warned Xander. An announcement like that in there might just get Kincaid's head punched in. "And don't be stupid. Kincaid was the one who dragged us out of that hell, the one who found a way for us to fight. If he's working with them, then I'll bet my right hand it's for good reason."

"Thanks," he muttered, draining the tankard. "You've not been getting caught up in any of the riots, have you, Maggie?"

She gave him a long, slow look.

"Don't," he warned her. "There's something brewing behind the scenes—someone pulling strings who's trying to stir up trouble. Whoever it is, they don't give a damn about us humans. They're just using you to tilt at windmills."

"What have you heard?" she asked quietly, refilling his tankard.

"Can't really say." But something else was bothering him. And maybe it was the reason he was truly here. "What would you do if there was a way to get rid of the blue blood scourge forever?"

Maggie froze. So did Xander. Loud laughter and noise spilled over their trio, but he knew he had his answer.

"What do you mean?" Xander's charm slid off him in an instant, his expression turning hard. "What do you know?"

And instantly he knew it was a mistake. "Nothing. It's nothing. I'm just speaking theoretically: if you had a way to kill blue bloods, what would you do?"

"Well, I'd get my hands on it," Xander said, a little louder, and Maggie instantly hushed her husband.

She was looking at him, her dark eyes reading the nuances Xander clearly didn't see. "For years we've been crushed under the heel of the Echelon, Kincaid. We never had a way to defeat them, because we're human, and they're not. They're almost impossible to kill, which is why we built the Cyclops. Only an automaton could survive a blue blood. If you know of something that could kill them, then you should speak up."

"And where do we stop? How do we control it?" he asked quietly. "The Nighthawks are all rogue blue bloods. Without them, we would never have had a chance to kill the prince consort. We'd still be sitting in that enclave and rotting. They were our allies."

Xander shrugged. "We don't have to kill the Nighthawks, unless they get in our way."

It was Maggie, once again, who saw the problem. "The needs of many outweigh the sacrifice of a few, K. You're the one who told me that seven years ago."

And he'd believed it then, when he ruled the enclaves and the only way out was to overthrow the mad prince consort. Did he believe it now? He'd yelled the exact same fucking thing at Ava, but it was only now, when his friends repeated the same views, he could see the dangers.

"Ava's a blue blood," he said, and Xander nearly spit out his drink.

"Fuckin' Jaysus," Xander said, and then coughed. "Are you mad?"

He scrubbed his weary face again. "I told you. They ain't all bad. Maggie's got more murderous impulses in her little finger than Ava has in her entire body. It's... opened my eyes a little."

"Here," Maggie said, exchanging a glance with Xander as she poured them all another round. "No more talk of killing blue bloods. Not now. Let's just have a moment to clear our heads and think about the repercussions. We'll have another ale and reminisce about old times."

Xander clapped him on the back. "I think K needs to swim in a vat of beer. He's spouting utter nonsense."

But Maggie looked at him, and he could tell she knew he wasn't speaking nonsense.

* * *

His head swayed.

Kincaid staggered up against a door, blinking when his nose met wood. He rapped loudly, cursing under his breath, which stank of ale.

"Hold up!" someone called from inside.

He rapped again, trying to hold himself upright. Christ Jaysus. Couldn't go back to Malloryn's. Not like this.

Orla answered the door, blinking in surprise. "Jesus, Liam. What gin joint did you drag yourself through?"

He staggered inside and collapsed on the small sofa in the parlor just off the kitchen. The room was spinning, and he pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes to try and stop it. "Not gin. Ale. Bloody... bloody McGraw."

Soft hands tucked a blanket over the top of him. "Aye, I can smell it now. Did you bathe in it, or simply drink the entire barrel by yourself?"

"Mebbe... bit of both. Needed to clear me... head."

"Oh, I'm sure you did that."

He winced at the strident sound of her voice. "Orla, d'you ever wonder what life would have been like if Agatha never went out that night?"

Orla knelt on the sofa beside his hip. "Oh, you've had a rare gutful, haven't you? There's no point in stirring up the past. Agatha's free of her demons now." She patted his hand. "You're the one still carrying them for her."

He dragged his hands lower, making out her shadowy form in the darkness. His voice was very quiet. "I like her, Orla."

"Like... who? Oh." Orla's hand softened on him. "Then you should be telling Ava that. Not me."

"I can't." He stared at the roof, as if he could see straight through it. His uncle would be sleeping now. "How long... does he 'ave?"

"The doctor says maybe a few months."

Tears suddenly blurred his vision. "I should visit more."

"He knows why you don't."

"Aye." Kincaid scraped them out of his eyes. "But what's that say for me? 'E deserves more. He practically fuckin' raised me." He had the sudden horrific thought of what it would feel like, trapped in a bed, with nothing to do, no one visiting. "I just can't bear it, Orla. All I see is Ian. All I see is my f-future. All alone."

"Oh, Liam." Orla slid into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. "You know I'll be there for you."

And maybe that was worse, because she'd already given up so much of her own life to care for Will, and her father. He squeezed her tight, his voice roughening, "I won't do that to you."

"It's not your choice," she said simply, and kissed his cheek. "Go to sleep. You're drunk and feelin' the weight of the world tonight. You should talk to Dad about it tomorrow. There's still hope for you, Li. You said yourself your pasty-faced duke asked the Royal College of physicians to look into your case, and threw funding at the place to do it. You're barely past the first symptoms."

He turned his face into her hair, those old nightmares flashing through his vision again: the horror he'd felt the first time his legs went out from under him. A muscle spasm. That was all, he'd told himself. But he'd known then it wasn't. "Aye," Kincaid said softly, still staring at the ceiling. "They'll find a cure," he whispered, though he silently vowed if there was no cure, then he'd never burden Orla with another body to slowly bury.

Just as he'd never condemn Ava to the same fate.