Rooks and Romanticide (5 page)

“Either you're an assassin sent to
take care
of me….” Cain whispered, stopping with his back to a large and full corner of shrubbery, which hung over the stone path like a roof woven of vines and twigs. He offered the masked man an admittedly daring stare. “Or you and I share a similar idea of fun.”

A shadow seemed to pass through the masked man's eyes then, some fast and sudden thought like he'd been hoping for the very words Cain had spoken or he hadn't expected them at all. It distracted him for a moment, though it did not take the smile from his face.

“But what if I'm both?” the masked man suggested gently.

“Then I suppose I'd just have to hope the fun you have with me convinces you to give up arms,” Cain countered, meaning to sound quite more threatening than he did as the young masked man caged him in against the bushes and caught his mouth in a masterfully stolen kiss.

It really was a wonder how many gentlemen one could find who leaned
that way
on a regular basis.

There was no way the stranger was a hit man, but as surely as always there was the constant possibility, a dance with the devil that Cain danced quite eagerly. He couldn't help it. Something about living in the womb of danger and thrill was just an intrinsic part of him—not to mention that in moments such as the present, it was an absolute turn-on.

Sparks of lust clustered at the base of Cain's spine. In the dark of the garden, they kissed—in a soft and passionate way at first—and Cain shuddered when the blond man's tongue darted out across his lower lip. He could feel himself giving way to the cupid's dart. He wanted the blond man,
badly
. And he didn't even know his first name yet. Whatever, it didn't matter, this was how boys kissed. Boys and men. Rough and raw and aggressive, and the blond man's hands tore at his clothes as their kisses deepened, not to rip them off, but to feel every angle and curve beneath the velvet and brocade. It was a bracing sort of anxiety, colliding in the dark like this, a stimulating sense of the illicit. The greedy graze of teeth left Cain's mouth feeling bruised. There was something liberating about it too, like screaming at somebody or throwing something across the room.

Imagine, if the night just went
well
for once! Uneventful, free of care… No one to stop him from having a little fun the way he wanted it, not even the newly invasive presence of his cousin and fiancée. Oh, but it wasn't Emily's fault. He was an awful, awful man to be doing this behind her back. But no, it wasn't behind her back. It was not like he did this with her, anyway.

The young blond man's eyes gave him the chills. With half his face hidden by that mask, his gaze was more intense. All right, so maybe the man wasn't a complete nuisance. His kisses sure as hell weren't. Maybe he was just as unmoved as Cain—by the ball, by the world, by responsibility, and paperwork, and the stars overhead. Maybe it was something to be said that he'd managed to keep Cain entertained for the last quarter of an hour or so. Not that Cain could afford friends or really even wanted to, but perhaps tonight was one of the nights he would let his guard down low enough to enjoy himself. He'd toss back another drink or two and show the masked man around the upper wings of the manor. And after some more witty back-and-forth, flirty as it was, the sexual tension would just snap and Cain could snatch off that black mask and let curious hands crawl into his trousers—look, the man had perfect hands, wide but slim in an elegant way. Tragic how difficult it was to get the head of the Dietrich household alone in a world where two families warred one against the other and no one was safe.

Cain felt himself bending to that heated stare, to the arm snaking around his waist, and his heart leapt—goose bumps chased his fingertips—the blond man's hand slid shamelessly to brush along his upper leg, so dangerously and deliciously close to finding the nearby sign of reckless desire. Ah, this could be the start of something, Cain decided with a guilty chuckle against the blond man's hungry mouth. Something that endured in secrecy—every nobleman had a
lover
—

Gunshots ripped through the night and everything but instinct came screeching to a halt.

In an instant the tryst was abandoned. Indeed instinct kicked in, consuming all rational thought and focus.

Footsteps scraping on the flagstone, Cain dodged out of the garden. He dove beneath the stone of the courtyard arcades, pressing into the shadows of a mossy pillar and flipping up the end of his cloak. He dropped his mask as he drew his gun. The click of the hammer cocking gave him an excited shiver.

This was the life of a Dietrich, after all.

Guests scattered. Cain watched from the shadows of the arcades. Some ran for cover, flocking in his direction or stumbling for the ballroom doors, while yet others panicked on the courtyard stone. The waitstaff slammed shut the doors to the ballroom and screams echoed, demanding they be opened again. And
where the hell was Security
? Hazel, Percy, Mr. Collins—those damned servants were hardly good at anything else.
So where were they
?

More bullets flew, this time shattering abandoned glasses of port and brandy, tearing through bushes and trees, spraying water, and marring the stone of the fountain, popping the fronts of lanterns strung along the courtyard. And good, it sounded like the shooter was outside, probably up on the balconies somehow. Cain craned out of the shadows, trying to see the closest terrace.

There, almost directly overhead, in a black mask—there was a blond boy aiming what looked like a semiautomatic pistol. Cain shot twice in his direction, then ducked back into the shadows as bullets rained down on the cobbles in response, chipping the pillar he hid behind and scarring the stone walkway. Cain's fingers were ice-cold.

Guests cried out at the sounds of open fire. It seemed there was more than one shooter aiming at him. It was a group attack on the house. And a pathetic one at that, Cain decided. It was clearly not an ambush with intentions of bloodshed. The attackers wouldn't have been relying on handguns, reckless aim, and disorderly fire if they were on a mission like that.

No, this was something worse than that—this was another brazen act of provocation, a scare tactic, a show of skill and defiance, and it was meant to do nothing else but piss Cain off.

He didn't quite register the screams around him beyond the sharp urgency of the moment as he shoved through the throbbing, panicked crowd, packed against the side of the manor like a bunch of animals. He ran along the flagstone walk. The moonlight passed in streaks through the vines over the arcades. He followed around to the opposite side of the courtyard, where he could plainly see the balcony on which the blond man had been.

But the blond man was gone, and as Cain skidded to a stop behind another column, he found Hazel, pulling revolvers from under her maid's layers and already aiming for the redhead on the roof who had taken the blond man's place.

“
Fuck
,” Cain hissed, crouching down behind Hazel with a hand on her shoulder to keep his balance.

Hazel pulled the trigger.

Cain braced against the kick, watching over her shoulder. The redhead danced around a few shots, then returned fire with wild abandon, hollering something utterly inaudible above the panic of the guests. Bullets shredded through the trees of the courtyard, ricocheted off the wrought iron garden chairs and tables. Cain moved behind the stone column again. There was Weston, herding everyone inside through the northwest servants' doors.

Lead scattered from above the courtyard, hitting the column a few feet over Cain's head. Shards of granite and Portland stone tumbled down in clouds of dust. Cain ducked around the other side of the pillar and listened to the fight for a moment or two. The shots from the roof weren't constant now, just defiant replies to the shots Dietrich Security fired from below. From somewhere overhead came the sound of a shout, a few dull thuds, and a clatter. It sounded like Mr. Collins and Percy had split up from Hazel and hurried upstairs to surprise the attackers there. A small pepperbox rifle clattered down from the balcony above, and Cain made a mental note to snag it afterward. If he knew the model and distributor, he could determine possible suspects
—

Hazel threw an empty gun down in exchange for her second, but then there were footsteps, crunching on shattered granite. Cain stiffened. Had the attackers sent someone down below or was that Hazel moving closer?

The movement stopped on the opposite side of the pillar. Cain sank down into a crouch, searching for a shadow to judge by. But whatever shadow might have been cast slanted into the swarm of shadows of the arcades, far from helpful. Hazel was over there somewhere, after all.

“Don't worry,” someone said in a cool whisper from behind—and Cain recognized the voice instantly. It was the young blond man in the black mask from earlier.

Cain's heart gave a little flutter, and he felt the pinpricks of a shameful blush. God, but why was he so excited? How had his interest for the night been so irreparably ensnared? He pressed back against the granite again, narrowing his eyes at the other side of the courtyard and watching for movement on the roof and balconies. He readjusted his clammy grip on his revolver and hissed, “You really decided to stay out here when all the guests were ushered in?”

“I have no intention of dying tonight,” the masked man vowed. Cain uttered a gentle scoff. The young man chuckled, and Cain heard the click of a hammer from the other side of the stone column. This was as dark and impure as the confessional booth felt to him, full of lovely secrets and sins and the chill of not looking each other in the eye.

“I have no intention of accepting responsibility for your death, you know—” Cain spat, borrowing the blond man's overzealous words.

“I would never expect it from you, my friend. Being prepared does not make it your responsibility to accept.”

“Prepared, ha! I'm always prepared. Well, whatever, perhaps you can just repay your host with good aim—”

There was a short silence. And then, from the other side of the column:

“O Death, what do you mean?”

“Get your head out of your ass!” Cain hissed. “I'm the Earl under all this ugly garb!”

There was a brief spray of bullets between those on the ground and the last of those on the upper eaves of the manor, until finally the redheaded one yelled something—something Cain couldn't hear from below the arcades.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped.

The whole foray had lasted maybe only ninety seconds, but it was another long minute or two before Cain stood again, legs cramping and hands quivering like they always did at the end of such events. He pressed his face to the cool granite column, trying to reclaim a bit of composure. He wasn't sure if he was more shaken up or just infuriated by the situation, and for a moment, breathing was difficult and he panicked at the possible advent of an anxiety attack.

“Hazel!” he called cautiously. He heard the
clatta-clack
of her gun as she lowered it. He glanced over, meeting her eyes.

And the young man in the black mask was gone.

Damn it all to hell.

He hadn't even gotten his name—

Cain moved out from under the arcades, kicking some chipped granite and stone as he trudged into the courtyard. The pepperbox rifle was gone. An eerie silence had fallen, the terror of the guests a muted roar from inside the house.

“My lord!” Hazel beckoned from the shadows, deeply and professionally concerned. “My lord, it's not yet safe—”

“No.” Cain scowled. “It's safe. I know it. They've retreated. They weren't here to kill, just to crash the party.” He shook his head, hands still shaking. “Hazel, meet the rest of Security upstairs and search the house. If you find anyone, hold them in the kitchen. It was probably some petty gang or something.”

Hazel hesitated, then nodded curtly and took off toward the servants' doors, her little plaited braids coming loose at the nape of her neck. Bushes rustled as a lone waiter climbed from his hiding spot among them. Cain slid his gun back into its holster and surveyed the damage.

The courtyard was a mess of broken dishes, tattered foliage, holes in the cobbles, and dropped food and drinks. Cain's fingers twitched into fists, and he kicked a shard of fine china, watched it shatter into smaller pieces a few feet away.

Yes, a petty gang, he was more than certain of it. A gunslinging street gang who thought it fell on their shoulders to pose riots and stage rebellions in the name of the family who hated the Dietrichs as much as the Dietrichs hated them.

“Fucking Ruslaniv
bastards
!” Cain howled, kicking a few more broken dishes. He felt like a child throwing a fit, but there was no one there to hear except for a few scattered servants and Weston.

Jaw tight, Cain propped one hand on his hip and cradled his temple in the other. How ridiculous he probably looked, how comical, all painted and done up and screaming and stomping.

“Weston,” he mumbled, “were there any injuries?”

“Scrapes and bruises, sir. One young lady was grazed on the shoulder. She collapsed from fright soon after, I'm afraid, and another man in the initial frenzy twisted his ankle. As it stands, those are the only grave injuries.”

“Lovely,” Cain whispered, dropping both hands and taking a deep breath. “At least there's no need to fill out another civilian casualty report for the queen—just mass hysteria left for
me
to deal with. And, I suppose, this mess out here to clean up. I've sent Security in to search the house, but I'm sure they've all fled already.”

Cain kicked a dirty fork, watching it skitter forward along the stone. The rush of the fight was starting to fade, leaving not much else but cold, distilled hatred for the Ruslanivs and their unruly gangs. Not much else, sure, except for the bruising frustration of the night being ruined right when he'd decided to have a good time for once. He'd been on the right course for a little bit of ass tonight too!