Kiss of the Spindle

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “What is it that has you so desperate, I wonder?”

  Mercy, did those eyes ever smile? “My concern, none of yours.”

  “Nor is my business any of yours, and yet you’ve made it such.”

  “Unusual circumstances,” she muttered, feeling a twinge of conscience.

  He folded his arms. “One who is desperate can be coerced, used, even.”

  She felt her temper stir. “Name your price.”

  “As it happens, I have no need for a shifter empath of any sort.”

  “Then I shall owe you a favor. In your line of work, such services may be beneficial.”

  He affected surprise. “I own an air fleet. My line of work has no overlap with yours.”

  She smiled. “We both know that to be untrue.”

  He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, and she felt the first stirrings of true hope. She may be bound for Port Lucy after all. “I have no spare accommodations other than my first mate’s cabin; he is not accompanying this voyage. It is not as large as the passenger suites.”

  “It is of no consequence to me. If necessary, I would travel in the cargo hold.” She fought a shudder.

  “What are you running from? Will I find an angry spouse or relative on my heels? An enemy colleague, perhaps?”

  “I am running from nothing. I am going to something. My actions are my own entirely, and involve nobody else.”

  He examined her for another long, inscrutable moment, his eye snagging on her hip. “You’re holstered.”

  She moved her coat aside. “A Crowley triple-blast ray gun.”

  “You’ll check that and any other weaponry in my quarters, of course. Unless you are also a certified Air Marshall and permitted to carry.”

  Count to ten, Isla. “Very well.” She hesitated. She never parted with her weapons; her profession demanded safety. What were her options, though? “I am permitted to carry, however, and accustomed to maintaining the tools of my trade, keeping them close at hand. Perhaps after a short time—”

  “You blackmail your way onto a voyage and think to remain heavily armed? While occupying the cabin adjacent mine? I am not a fool, Dr. Cooper.” He extended his hand and beckoned with his fingers. “We’ll begin with that one. And once we’re boarded, I’ll search your belongings.”

  Isla fought back the anger she knew would not serve her. Forcing her hand to do her bidding, she unsnapped her holster and withdrew her ray gun, her eyes locked with his. She slapped the grip in his outstretched hand. and he wrapped his fingers around it.

  “Release it.”

  She drew in a breath, two.

  “You may threaten me all you like, Doctor, but my patience stretches only so far. Do not tempt me into dispatching you right now and leaving your body for the attendants to find.”

  “Threats, Captain?”

  He smiled grimly. “Seems to be the order of the day.”

  Isla released her grip and felt immediately vulnerable. She rarely fired it outside target practice, but she had walked with a weapon at her hip since her early teens.

  “After you, Dr. Cooper.” Mr. Pickett swept an arm toward the ship. “With any luck, this will be an uneventful voyage.”

  Daniel Pickett followed the woman up three flights of stairs from the hull to the main deck, fuming the entire way. He wouldn’t truly have killed her, he was relatively certain of that. But his anger roiled, and he knew one wrong word from anyone would push him over the proverbial edge. An ache settled behind his eyes, and he sighed, weary before the voyage had even begun.

  The automatons on the main deck readied the ship for departure. All seemed in order, and a quick glance at the glass-encased wheelhouse high on the quarterdeck showed his personal ’ton, Samson, running through the departure checklist. Daniel gestured for the good doctor to follow him. He descended a short companionway and turned left onto the narrow corridor, turning her name over in his mind and wondering why it sounded familiar.

  He withdrew his keys. “This is the first mate’s cabin. I trust it will suffice.”

  The woman nodded. She was on the smaller side, not at all the sort of person he imagined taking down a predatory shifter.

  “I am stronger than I look.” She offered a half-smile.

  She was also astute.

  “Why is your first mate not accompanying this voyage?”

  “I utilize my personal ’ton on select flights.”

  “Very sound. A ’ton can be programmed to keep secrets.”

  Daniel glanced behind them and unlocked the cabin door. He ushered the woman inside with a muttered oath and kicked the door shut. “You are aboard this flight against my wishes, Doctor. I do not want to hear another word about secrets or blackmail or whatever it is you believe you know. Am I clear?”

  She studied him evenly, but a muscle worked in her throat as she swallowed. To her credit, she stood her ground. Grown men had backed away from his anger. She was either incredibly foolhardy or extremely confident in her abilities to defend herself. He glanced at her portmanteau and wondered what additional weapons she carried.

  “Very clear, Mr. Pickett. My humblest apologies.” She spoke softly, the pitch a fraction lower than before.

  He took a breath, feeling a sense of calm, which was followed by a quick surge of anger. “I am not a shifter. Do not attempt to control me with your empath skills!”

  She raised a brow. “It worked, then? Do you have shifter lineage?”

  “No!” He fumed quietly, then said, “Only the one uncle.”

  She tipped her head. “A thin tie, but possible.”

  “He’s just a fox,” he said, dismissing the notion. Another thought struck him, and he felt cold all over. After the war, his friend Dr. Samuel MacInnes had exchanged Daniel’s battered left lung for a healthy one from a donor who had died in an accident. A donor who had been a predatory shifter.

  Daniel tried to dampen his fears. There was no documentation showing any contamination from a donor to a surgical recipient. Sam had been certain of it. The procedure itself had been conducted under the cover of darkness in Sam’s secret lab in his London home. Transplants were legal only with approved medical devices, but Sam had insisted natural tissue was a better alternative, especially if the organ came from a donor deceased less than twelve hours. To that point, Sam had been right; Daniel’s body had accepted the lung without issue.

  He sought to distract himself and his unwelcome passenger by grabbing the doctor’s portmanteau and thumping it down on the tidy built-in bed on the left wall, adjoining his cabin. He motioned brusquely for her to unlock the satchel, which she did with a sideways, assessing glance.

  “Please do not read more than is there,” Isla said, smiling. “I also am adept at understanding and perceiving human emotion. Often my skills as an animal empath also extend to the . . . human animal, if you will.”

  He pulled it toward him before she could take anything from it. He felt her glance but ignored it, fighting genuine panic that he may have serious complications because of the lung. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about with the ’ton implants Sam had used to rebuild his shredded muscle. Dr. Cooper, curse her, had been correct. His entire left arm and shoulder, plus pectoral and lateral muscles, were genetically engineered from human tissue and metal reserved for ’ton construction. Not illegal, precisely, but socially taboo. Widespread knowledge of his situation could affect his business disastrously.

  A quick but thorough examination of Dr. Cooper’s portmanteau produced two knives and a smaller version of the ray gun he’d already confiscated. He held the three weapons in one hand while giving the bag a final once-over. “This would be easier if you’d simply produce any additional weapons you might have.”

  She shook her head, her lips tight. “Those are all. And you’re leaving me utterly defenseless.”

  He
raised a single brow. “I should think a natural empath would possess innate survival skills the rest of us do not. Remove your overcoat, if you please.”

  She opened her mouth but must have thought better of snapping a reply. Instead, she met his eyes while shrugging out of her formfitting greatcoat. She tossed it onto the bed and held her hands out to her sides. He took in her attire, noting the white under-corset blouse and the thin, black leather corset that might contain smaller implements sewn in but he couldn’t be certain without a closer examination. Which, he silently admitted, would not be distasteful in the least.

  Continued perusal showed black trousers, knee-high boots, and a holster wrapped around one thigh, which she subtly angled away from him.

  He smiled and put a hand on her shoulder to pivot her around. “Clever girl.” The small knife blended into her clothing—at a distance one might miss seeing it altogether. He reached down, released the small holster snap, and removed the knife. He tested the weight of it in his palm with reluctant admiration; it was small but also substantial and deadly. Much like its owner.

  She glared at him; he stood close enough to note the gold flecks in her green irises. A man could lose himself in eyes like that. She radiated an intense energy he couldn’t define but felt keenly.

  “You’ve divested me of every means of defense.”

  He shook his head. “Somehow I doubt that, Dr. Cooper.” He crossed to the door, pausing to turn the key in the connecting door between the cabins to show he intended her no ill. “We travel with the sparest of crew, so I cannot provide a personal maid or assistant for you. We do have an efficient ’ton cook, however, and two formal meals per day in the wardroom at the bow, plus tea in your cabin, if you choose.”

  One of the ’tons on his crew appeared in the doorway, and Daniel frowned. “What takes you away from the Stirling Engine? It’s past time for departure.”

  “Sir, we have an additional passenger aboard.”

  “Yes, I am aware.” He glanced at Dr. Cooper, who had begun refolding articles of clothing.

  “No, sir, in addition to this guest.”

  Daniel’s patience wore perilously thin. “We haven’t the space, dismiss him.”

  “He says he is from the Predatory Shifter Regulations Committee and is demanding passage. Mr. Samson instructed me to bring the matter to you.”

  Dr. Cooper appeared at his side. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Nigel Crowe,” the ’ton answered.

  Daniel closed his eyes briefly. The day grew worse by the minute.

  “Tell him no.” Dr. Cooper looked to Daniel, then the ’ton. “You mustn’t . . . You cannot . . .”

  “I am aware,” Daniel ground out. He didn’t need his first unwelcome passenger to warn him of the dangers of the second. “Regrettably, however, Mr. Crowe has potentially more blackmail leverage than you do, Doctor.”

  Her eyes widened, and she visibly paled. “Offer him this cabin if you must, but please allow me a . . . a . . . a storage closet somewhere, or the galley pantry. Anything, anywhere. I must reach Port Lucy, and soon.”

  Daniel’s headache blossomed and settled in comfortably behind his eyes. Occasionally, government officials demanded passage for emergency circumstances, and Daniel often granted those favors. He considered denying Crowe, but Daniel could not afford to make him an enemy. He turned to the ’ton. “The tiny infirmary adjacent the lounge, across from the three other cabins. Inform him that is his only option.”

  “Yes, sir.” The ’ton nodded and left. Daniel glanced at the small arsenal he still held in his hand and turned his attention back to Dr. Cooper. “How are you acquainted with Mr. Crowe?”

  Dr. Cooper flushed. “He does not approve of my efforts to distinguish the predatory criminal population from the predatory innocent. He believes in wholesale extermination.” She scratched behind her ear. “I may have had an unpleasant encounter with him in the last year. Possibly three or four—dozen.”

  He exhaled. “Of course you have.” He exited the cabin and turned to his own door in the corridor. Two unwelcome passengers, one who communed on a deep biological level with predatory shifters and another who would like to see all shifters executed. And the coup de grace? Daniel smuggled predatory shifters out of England and currently had three aboard.

  He locked the doctor’s weapons in his office safe and decided that if he were ever granted a wish, it would be to begin this day over and depart immediately for the continent. Alone.

  Isla withdrew from her portmanteau two skirts, another pair of breeches, two blouses, and an additional corset. She shook them out and hung them in the small wardrobe, chewing on her lip and deciding that if she were the weepy type, now might be a good time for it. Tears were useless, however, and she’d realized as a child that when she encountered problems, finding solutions was entirely her own responsibility. She’d yet to experience a situation where crying helped.

  Nigel Crowe. What on earth were the odds he would demand passage on this particular flight? She rifled through her underthings in the portmanteau to feel for the ridge of the false bottom. Underneath were two additional knives and a pack of throwing stars, a few extra rounds of Tesla chargers for the ray gun, and a packet of herbs that could stun a large opponent. She’d lied to the captain about not having more weapons, but desperate times and all that. Now that Nigel Crowe was going to be within shouting distance for the next three weeks, she wanted to be doubly certain she had access to her defenses.

  She withdrew a leather-bound book and pen from the bag and sat at the small desk next to the bed. She checked off several items on the list she’d made earlier in the week and breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the engines fire up. The sooner the ship left England, the closer she would be to finding a cure for the botanical curse that had plagued her for ten long months. Captain Pickett hadn’t realized the boon he was handing to Isla when he offered the use of this private cabin. The curse made her vulnerable, and if she were forced to bunk among other people . . . She’d been willing to take the chance, but hadn’t realized until now how much the danger had weighed on her mind.

  She turned to a fresh page in her notebook and started a new list, titled Curing the Curse. She could just as easily have called it Fixing the Mess Melody Made or Ten Reasons Why Melody Is the World’s Worst Sister.

  Thoughts of her younger sister lodged a familiar pit in her stomach, and Isla wondered how Melody would possibly avoid trouble without Isla to keep her well in hand. She amended her thinking; trying to control Melody at this point in the seventeen-year-old’s life had led to nothing but trouble. Trouble that even now found her aboard an airship bound for the Caribbean with a hostile captain, an enemy from the PSRC, and a trio of predatory shifters. Of the three dangers, she feared the shifters the least.

  1. Obtain passage to Port Lucy.

  She began with this item so she would have something already accomplished she could cross off.

  2. Locate Malette.

  3. Bribe Malette for a cure. Blackmail, if necessary.

  This did Isla little good because she had nothing to hold over the Dark Magick witch’s head. She frowned at her list.

  4. Threaten Malette with bodily harm if she refuses to help.

  5. Avoid Nigel Crowe like the plague. Which he probably has.

  She smirked.

  6. Enact the cure.

  She didn’t know how long this step would take, or even what the cure would entail. She would have to content herself with leaving item number six open-ended in terms of a deadline.

  7. Return to England before the Autumn Festival, where Melody will surely wreak havoc upon all and sundry, most especially upon herself.

  Some things would not change. She would always feel responsible for Melody, and Melody would always resent it. Isla set down her pen and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. She considered telescribing their
mother with the reasons for her sudden departure to the tropics, but quickly dismissed it. Bella Castle Cooper and her sister, Hester Castle O’Shea, had a successful dress shop in Mayfair that consumed their every waking thought. Isla had grown too accustomed to the situation to begrudge it.

  Bella and Hester had put their skills to good use when Bella’s husband had left her a widow with two young daughters, and she and her sister had not only survived, but flourished. Everybody who was anybody shopped at Castles’ Boutique, and some even dressed their ’tons in Castles’ creations.

  The boutique had provided a comfortable living for Isla and Melody, and also Hester’s children, cousins whom Isla had found informally under her charge while the women created a small empire. It wasn’t old money, but it was substantial money, and it had provided every educational opportunity Isla had desired. Her mother had even fronted the money for Cooper Counseling and Investigations, a business Isla had been unable to begin on her own for lack of capital. Bella was an unconventional mother, emotionally flighty perhaps, but she loved her daughters in her way. Regrettably, when Melody had run amok this past year, Isla found herself parenting a teenager who most definitely did not desire parenting.

  Isla reviewed her list and wished she had a more detailed, useful plan to follow. There were too many variables and that made her uneasy. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind so much if her entire future—professional and personal—wasn’t at stake.

  Daniel stood in the wheelhouse with Samson, relieved that all seemed in working order, but he still felt edgy. Smuggling missions were never carefree, but he usually had use of the bigger ship, which had been specifically designed for the purpose. With this voyage, he had been forced to improvise and it didn’t sit well.

  “You are uneasy, Captain.” Samson glanced at Daniel. “Your body temperature has risen, and your heart rate is substantially elevated.”