Page 4 of To Catch A Rogue

Golorukov had brought them all the way from Russia, and while she doubted they bore themarque du sangof a tiered member of the Blood tattooed on their backs, she was fairly certain they were all infected with the craving virus.

A blue blood—like herself—had better hearing and eyesight than a regular human. They were faster, stronger and owned exceptional capabilities, even if the bloodthirsty craving constantly beckoned and the idea of going about in the daylight gave one a headache.

But the Russians made the English blue bloods look like lost little lambs.

She couldn't afford to be caught by one of the guards, especially if they were Imperial Ravens. Ravens were both afflicted with the craving virus and given bio-mech enhancements in the military's laboratories until they were barely recognizable as human anymore. They'd kill her on sight, and were most likely dangerous enough to do it easily.

Lark paused at the edge of the rooftop, slinking into stillness like a watchful gargoyle. Only her pulse shivered through her as she observed one of the guards making his rotation through the gardens below. Golorukov had very inconveniently placed lanterns throughout the trees. There were shadows aplenty, but not the true darkness she preferred to hide within.

Thirty seconds between guards. She'd spent half the night watching them before she’d made her move to break in.

Lark held her breath and waited.

Sure enough, there was the next one, moving with a dangerous grace. No sign of a single weapon upon him—he wore a similar livery to the one she'd "borrowed" from one of Golorukov's footmen—but that didn't mean he wasn't armed.

The second he was out of sight, she took a running leap and soared through the air toward the nearest tree—a good twenty feet away.

A squirrel started chattering angrily at her, disturbed from its sleep.Shit.The last thing she needed was to draw the attention of a guard. She'd meant to wait here until the next rotation passed, but there was no time now.

Lark made a mad dash along the thick branch of the oak and hopped across to the top of the garden wall.

Then she was gone.

Vanishing into the night, her heartbeat pounding a ragged tattoo in her ears as she listened intently for signs of pursuit.

None came.

And Lark smiled to herself as she made her way across several rooftops to the rendezvous point where her scout was waiting.

Except Foley wasn't at the spot they'd agreed upon; instead a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets and one ankle crossed over the other.

Lark froze. There was a second where she started scanning for an immediate escape route, and then she recognized the faint arch of his brow as he stared back at her. On anyone else, the pose would have looked like a slouch, but there was just enough arrogance to the tilt of the stranger's chin to make it look deceptively casual.

The bane of her existence.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded. "I thought you were a bloody Nighthawk for a second—or one of Golorukov's Ravens!"

First rule of thieves code: Don't scare the piss out of your fellow cross-coves.

"I made sure you'd see me."

Seven months, two weeks, and three days since she'd seen him last, and yet her stupid heart kicked into gear like one of those velococycles that were becoming all the rage in the streets.

Charlie Todd always had that effect upon her.

"Good thing I wasn't nervous. Not like I'm halfway through a bloody high-stakes job and might be inclined to stick a knife in people I don't expect."

"Why Lark," Charlie mocked. "It's lovely to see you too. You're looking well. Exceptionally smashing in.... Did you steal a footman's outfit, or have you taken to honest labor all of a sudden?"

"What d’you want?" She couldn't play this game. Not right now. "What did you do to Foley?"

"Sent him home." Charlie pushed off the wall, his hands still nonchalantly in his pockets.

As ifhisheart wasn't racing, nor the blood rushing throughhisveins at the sight of her. It probably wasn't. This affliction was one only she seemed to suffer.

"You had no right to do that." Lark started stripping out of the fancy embroidered coat she'd stolen. The golden frogging down the front was far too visible in the night.

She tossed it aside, the froth of her borrowed cravat tickling her chin.