Heart of Steel (11 page)

“Why?” he asked hoarsely.

Though he'd only managed to speak part of the question, she understood him perfectly.

“For the same reason you don't seek revenge. Just as throwing you overboard was completely justified by your stupid attempt to take my ship, so is your desire to reclaim this sketch. It
is
yours— and I've been a thief, but I prefer to steal only when necessary. And then there is this.” She rolled her sleeve back over the bracelet. “Remove it now, please.”

“Of course.” He set the glider contraption aside. Her fingers were warm and callused, the skin of her inner wrist smooth, her nails strong and curved like claws. He rotated the first copper segment. “You'll follow me to the Ivory Market?”

“Yes. And when our business is settled, perhaps we'll make time for something more.”

Her voice was low, throaty. His heart began to pound. Carefully, he turned the next segment. A brief touch against the side of his neck almost made him jump.

The fingers of her right hand slid along his jaw. Her slow smile exposed sharp teeth. “Careful, Mr. Fox. I'd hate to be poisoned.”

Sweat dampened his heated skin. His blood raced. “Only one more segment.”

Her hand drifted across his shoulder, down his left arm. He twisted the copper once . . . then again. The bracelet
click
ed.

Yasmeen stiffened. Anger and disbelief flashed over her expression, followed by terror. “You fucking bast—”

Her eyes rolled back. He caught her when she dropped.

“Opium,” he said urgently against her ear, hoping she was still conscious enough to understand. “Not poison. Never poison for you.”

Her head lolled forward, her muscles went lax. Copper glinted as an object fell from her right hand and
thunk
ed against the boards.

Archimedes stared at it in astonishment. Another slave bracelet—larger than the one still around her wrist.
Good God.
When had she palmed it? Only a few seconds ago, she'd been running her fingers over his skin.

He'd known he was in trouble. He hadn't realized just how close she'd come to turning the tables on him.

Thankfully, the opium had acted more quickly this time. He'd expected to dive into the hideaway until the drug had taken her down, but apparently even Captain Corsair didn't have much resistance against a second dose. Was it too much?

No.
Her breathing and pulse were both strong. She simply needed to sleep it off. He glanced at the bed but immediately recognized the folly of it. She might forgive him the trickery, but she wouldn't if any of her crew came in and saw her drugged in bed, fully dressed.

She also wouldn't forgive him if he stripped her naked.

Damn it all. He looked to the hideaway—and hoped she could forgive him this, too.

 

 

He didn't risk the food, no matter how tempting. And if,
during the ride down to the docks on the cargo platform, he entertained the fantasy of wearing only a slave bracelet in Yasmeen's bed and feeding her tender morsels on command, at least none of the crew could discern his thoughts.

That probably wasn't what
she'd
had in mind for him. Ah, well. She'd be after him soon enough, and he looked forward to the chase.

With the satchel strapped to his back, he hopped off the platform to the dock. Though the night was in the wee hours, there were still a few handfuls of sailors and aviators about, most of them staggering. The only person not in motion was a robed figure at the west end of the docks—

Oh, Christ save him.
Archimedes almost stumbled over his own feet when his heart burst into a rapid pace and his gut urged him to run, then forced himself to continue walking as if nothing were amiss.

Cold sweat gathered along his spine. A man with a taste for danger, he embraced the sweet excitement and challenge of it, but even standing a hundred yards from that woman was nothing like the delicious thrill of being next to Yasmeen. With the captain, there always existed the hope of success.

If the woman at the end of the docks spotted him, there would be no hope at all.

Archimedes walked almost forty yards before casually turning toward the wooden crates stacked along the boarded walk. They'd hid him well before, and they could do the same now. He hunkered down next to a sailor passed out and his clothes soaked in urine—if he was lucky, his own.

Breathing through his mouth, Archimedes forced a crate forward a few inches and created a narrow opening through which he could watch the woman. Judging by the angle of her body, she didn't appear to be looking his way, though he couldn't be certain. From this distance, he couldn't even be certain that she was Temür Agha's assassin—but the rebel's personal guard had stood exactly as this woman did now: quiet and watchful, as if nothing escaped her notice.

Hopefully, Archimedes had.

Minutes passed. The awkward crouch cramped the muscles in his thighs, but he'd sat through worse for longer. The woman didn't move. What was she looking at? Perhaps the harbor itself, studying the boats and airships. He glanced back at
Lady Corsair
. Like the other airships, her balloon shone like a pearl in the moonlight, and the deck lamps emitted a soft glow.

Or perhaps the woman was simply watching the aerial acrobats.

He saw them now, swooping their gliders around
The Grecian Queen
. Two of the four broke their arrow formation and spiraled upward, before dipping back around the
Queen
in a long, looping dive. Late for practice, but some of the troupes that traveled the North Sea guarded new maneuvers as carefully as state secrets, to build anticipation for their shows.

As skilled as they were, these acrobats would be nothing compared to some of the spectacles the woman saw in Temür Agha's court.

He looked toward the west end of the docks. She wasn't there. His heart seized, but he didn't dare poke his head up over the crates. He waited, stiff with tension. Footsteps approached on the boards. Not the assassin. He wouldn't hear her.

A sailor swaggered into view, with a satisfied puff to his chest that told Archimedes he'd spent time in the bawdyhouse or a serving girl's bed.

Archimedes cleared his throat as the sailor passed. “Do you see a woman in a black
djellaba
? A Musulman's robe,” he clarified when the sailor simply looked at him.

Recognition lit the man's eyes. “I saw her. A pretty little raven. She turned onto the north dock.”

Away from them. Thank God. Archimedes tossed the sailor a gold sous and took off at a run.

 

 

Blissed and spinning, Yasmeen kicked out four times before her foot connected with the wardrobe lever. She felt total shit: cotton-mouthed, feverish as hell, her lungs aching. She didn't trust her legs to stand. Opium had never affected her like this before—and it wasn't the first time she'd taken two darts in less than an hour. But her head wouldn't clear. Her eyes burned. She smelled smoke.

Smoke?

“Captain?”

The voice echoed in her head. Yasmeen struggled to her knees, fell against the hideaway doors. They slid open, vomiting her onto the cabin floor. The pattern on the rug beneath her cheek blurred. The edges of her vision narrowed, darkened.

“Captain! You have to come!”

Strong hands grabbed her wrists. Wool burned across her back, and Yasmeen recognized Ginger, blood dripping from a gash on her forehead, cheeks wet with tears.

Dragging her toward the door . . . because there'd been smoke.

Viciously, Yasmeen bit her own tongue. Blood flooded her mouth. Clarity flooded her mind. She pushed her feet under her. Ginger hauled her up.

“I'm up.” And steady enough. “To the bell, girl. Wake the crew!”

The girl shook her head, more tears spilling. Her tunic was soaked in blood, Yasmeen realized. Too much to only come from the cut on her head. “They're dead, Captain. They're all dead.”

“What? How?” Had the boiler exploded? Without waiting for an answer, she raced for the corridor. Her feet slipped just outside her cabin door. Her hands slapped against the bulkhead, and she caught herself before—

Oh, God. Sarah. Thema. The two girls lay in the passageway, throats slit.

Yasmeen stared, horror and disbelief filling her stomach with bile. Behind her, Ginger's chest heaved on a wretched sob.

Hardening herself against the sight, the sound, Yasmeen drew her pistols. “Who did it?”

“I didn't see. I ran to your quarters. They hit me coming through.”

They.
Yasmeen stopped breathing and listened. No steps. No sounds but a deep crackling. “Are they still here?”

“I don't think so. I closed the ladders to the lower decks, Captain, and cut off the air. But she's burning down below.”

Burning.
The word slashed across Yasmeen's heart, but she forced herself not to feel it. “Take a glider, Ginger. Go to
Vesuvius
. Tell Mad Machen everything you know.”

“But—”

Yasmeen turned, looked at the girl.

Ginger's mouth snapped closed, and she nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

By the time the girl unhooked the glider from the bulkhead, Yasmeen had searched the remaining cabins on the deck. Not one of her aviators had been caught in bed. Though some were in their smallclothes, each had daggers in their hands or guns at their sides.

They were all dead.

The iron covers over the hatchways to the lower decks blazed hot as a stove. She'd have risked a burn to save her crew, but she didn't dare open them. The rush of air would blow any fire into a conflagration and kill anyone left alive. The only hope for
Lady Corsair
's crew was to drown her.

She met Ginger at the ladder leading topside. Yasmeen climbed to the weather deck first, but it was impossible to shield the girl from the carnage. Steeling herself, Yasmeen moved carefully through the bodies to the tether line anchoring the airship to the dock. She hauled back the capstan's lever. Her lady gave a great shudder as the machine began to wind the tether cable, dragging her down to the water.

Ginger came up out the hatchway and unfolded the glider. “Are you coming, Captain?”

Yasmeen didn't know. “Go, Ginger. Now.”

The girl ran for the side and jumped. A heated updraft lifted her, and the glider wobbled, but she quickly gained control.

One made it off alive, then. It could never be enough.

Yasmeen turned back to her crew. Anger and desolation followed her around the deck. Pegg, blond hair matted with blood. Pegg the Mister, his staring eyes fixed in his wife's direction. Bebé Laverne, who'd once saved the entire crew with a derringer she'd hidden between her ample ass cheeks. Rousseau.

Oh, sweet lady, Rousseau. She knelt beside him, closed his eyes, smoothed her fingers over his wonderful, bushy brows. If only she'd been here to fight beside him.

His stomach had been opened. All of the aviators had been killed with blades—quietly and quickly. As soon as her crew had become aware of the danger, they'd been able to reach their weapons, but most hadn't had time to use them.

Whoever had done this, Yasmeen would do the same to them—but she wouldn't promise quiet or quick.

The sound of grinding metal stopped her heart.
No.
Yasmeen raced to the capstan. The tether line vibrated with tension. The air around her wavered with heat. Gritting her teeth, she braced her feet against the deck, threw her weight against the capstan's steel spokes, adding her strength to the machine's.

It wouldn't matter. She knew it wouldn't. The capstan was strong enough to pull the airship down, but not when a fire was heating the hydrogen in the balloon's envelope, expanding the gas. The capstan couldn't become any stronger—but her lady would become lighter and lighter. Eventually the tether line would snap.

But more likely, her lady would explode first.

Already stretched tight as a drum, the balloon appeared ready to burst at the seams. It would only take a tiny leak, enough air to fill a sigh.

Or a scream. Yasmeen let hers loose, pushing against the spoke with all her might, her muscles shaking with effort. It didn't move.

Her lady shuddered again. Yasmeen's feet skidded out from beneath her. Her knees crashed into the deck. Spikes of pain shot up her thighs.

The deep rumble from below became a roar.

Yasmeen's throat closed, and she listened to the sound of fire tearing through the lower decks. Her lady's belly had burned through. Perhaps only a small hole in the hull, but now air was rushing in . . . and there was no hope of saving her now.

A spark landed near her knee. Another. Yasmeen forced herself to her feet. Fire climbed the ropes toward the envelope. Not much time—and there was one thing left to save.

She dropped down through the hatchway into a corridor of smoke and flame. The door to her quarters was burning. She slammed through.

The steel strongbox was closed. That was all she'd needed to know—but she couldn't return the way she'd come. Flames rolled across the ceiling of her cabin.

Left alone since they'd wound down during Archimedes' visit, the mechanical lovebirds were still quiet. She ripped the bottom of the cage away, fitted it into the starboard porthole, twisted until the escape mechanism engaged. Glass shattered and wood shredded as the porthole rotated open, doubling in size. With another twist, she could create a standing autogyro from the two portholes, but she had no time, and the turbulence from the fire would likely tip it over, throwing her into the spinning blades. Better to dive into the harbor, and swim for the docks.