“That makes me the Duchess of Casavian,” she said. “Your father’s mortal enemy.”

Boldness stole over him. Leo caught her fingers as she turned to leave. “I don’t care.” Lifting them, he pressed his lips against the inside of her wrist, a shockingly bold deed, signaling his interest in her as a potential thrall.

“You should.” She tugged her hand free, furious heat stealing into her cheeks. Her eyes were black again, revealing the depths of her emotions. She must have been newly made a blue blood; it took years to master one’s emotions and control the depth of the predator within. “After all, I’m going to destroy you and your father. And if you ever touch me again, I shall remove the offending limb.”

Then she turned on her heel and strode away. Leaving him slightly breathless but no less determined.

Part One

The Chase

One

There are many facts that we know about that which we call the “craving virus.” That it originated in the Orient, used by the Imperial Family of the White Court to make themselves known as gods to their superstitious subjects; that the aristocrats of Spain, France, England, and Russia sought to infect themselves with the virus to promote their longevity, strength, speed, and increased healing rates; that the one unfortunate side effect—apart from the craving for blood—is the inevitable spiral of a blue blood into the Fade—that moment when the virus overwhelms a body, creating a creature obsessed by its obscene hungers: a vampire.

There is one final fact that until this day has been undeniable—that there is no cure for the craving virus. I do not claim otherwise. I believe there is no true cure for the virus, but the rate at which it colonizes a body can be controlled. As such, no longer shall the Fade—and the threat of vampires—be feared by the human populace of London. And it all begins with a vaccination…

—Transcript of journal entries by Sir Artemus Todd, published posthumously by Leopold Barrons in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, 1880

Venetian Gardens, London, 1880

Laughter echoed through the night, rough, bawdy, and high-pitched. In the distance, automatons played Brahms’s most recent string quartet. Cloaks swirled as dancers spun beneath an intricate rotunda carved in the rococo fashion. The enormous clock above the dome struck midnight, and the sky suddenly shattered into violent coruscations of fireworks.

It was time, then.

Lady Aramina slid the hood of her black velvet cape into place and slipped out of the crowd watching the dancing. It was an odd mix of both rich and poor, the brightly clothed and soberly hued, but one thing they all had in common here were masks. The Venetian Gardens were the place to be seen on a warm summer’s night, but anonymity was particularly desired during one of the Gardens’ notorious weekly masquerades.

Humans mingled with blue bloods, with none the wiser. Of course, she could tell which were which. The scent of blood in a young man’s wine betrayed what he was as surely as his pale skin. The pair of young women at his side were dressed in matching ball gowns, one with a collar of pearls and the other with a circlet of rubies around her throat. A blue-blood lord and his thralls, then. The collars indicated that they were under his protection and helped to hide the fine silvery scars at their throats, brought about by his small blood-letting knife. Any sign of scarring was considered vulgar in the world of the Echelon.

A burly man in a homespun cloak staggered into the pair of girls, reeling with the scent of gin. The blue blood’s smile slipped, and within seconds, steel flashed in the night. The man fell, blood staining his shirt from where the lord had run him through. The man’s friends, all of them built just as broadly—sailors perhaps, or dockworkers—hurried forward and begged apology, dragging the injured man out of the way. He’d live. Perhaps.

Either way, none of his friends would dare try to claim justice. The Venetian Gardens were on the outskirts of the walled heart of the City, where the blue bloods ruled London from their Ivory Tower, but close enough for fear to rule human hearts. If the same event had occurred outside the walls in the roughened boroughs of London, then perhaps the story would have been a different one.

For years, humans had been considered nothing more than cattle, and mechs—those men or women forced by accident or circumstance to replace limbs with metal—even less so. But recently the tide seemed to be turning. Whispers filled the city, those so-called “humanists” speaking of revolution, of throwing off the yoke of their blue-blood masters. One day those whispers would become shouts, and then the whole city would burn.

Dangerous thoughts to be having these days. The prince consort had ordered dozens of people cut down simply for murmuring such dissidence. There’d been a riot barely a day ago, with dozens of humans crushed beneath the steel Trojan cavalry the prince consort commanded.

Even here the rumble of discontent echoed, with one of the dockworkers glaring hatred at the lord as he escorted his thralls away. The injured man lay on the grass at his friends’ feet.

It’s not your concern, Mina told herself, slipping a champagne glass from the tray of a passing servant drone. She had other business to attend to this night. Raising the bloodied liquid to her lips, she glanced around. Nobody was watching her.

An explosion of hot gold sparks rocked the skies, reflecting off the gold lace of her gown and the waters of the nearest canal. Mina walked unhurriedly, her cape fluttering around her and the filigreed gold mask she wore eclipsing half her face. Men glanced at her, but she ignored them, steadily making her way over several bridges toward the back of the pleasure gardens. Here, the trees held no lanterns and the walkways were lined with hedges. Distance blanketed the sound of music, leaving her able to hear crickets chirping in the long grass. A place for secret rendezvous and scandalous liaisons. A dangerous place for a woman alone.

In most circumstances.

A tall shape formed out of the shadows, his cloak swirling around his leather boots and a sharp-beaked black mask hiding his face. There was no hiding the confidence in his manner or bearing, but nothing of a swagger about his stride. He simply had the air of a man who knew exactly what his worth was.

“You look ravishing, my dear,” he murmured, taking Mina’s gloved hand and leaning over it. “As a blond.”

His lips didn’t quite touch her glove.

Mina’s gaze slid past his shoulder into the shadows that clung like dense fog. The wig in question itched like the devil. “Sir, you do me too much honor. I’m not here to be ravished.”