Kiss of the Spindle
Page 4
Daniel’s only goal was to actually reach Port Lucy without harm coming to his passengers, either of their own unintended actions or because of the man who sat at the table examining them with unconcealed speculation. Crowe probably knew—or strongly suspected—that Quince, Bonadea, and Lewis were predatory shifters, just as he probably knew—or strongly suspected—that Daniel had been smuggling undocumented shifters out of the country. That Dr. Cooper, an obviously well-known predatory shifter empath and counselor, was also aboard suggested her purpose was to act as support if the need should arise.
Discovery meant professional ruin at best, imprisonment at worst.
Of all the flights for Dr. Isla Cooper to bully her way onto, why this one?
Isla had never wanted to inflict bodily harm upon a person as much as she wished she could on Nigel Crowe. In her current state, she figured she could comfortably flick a throwing star dead center in his forehead without batting an eye. He was underhanded and insulting. Isla had never met a man with such a handsome exterior who possessed such an icy interior. Worse, he was nearly impossible for her to read, which was unusual.
She had battled him on multiple occasions right in his very offices where he worked under Bryce Randolph, an odious and self-serving man. Her most contentious confrontation to date with Crowe had occurred six months previously when he had ordered the immediate arrest of a man she’d been counseling. Her client was a good man with a wife and seven children, but he had been caught too late in the city after midnight on a full moon and was responsible for some minor destruction of property. Isla had used every ounce of reasoning, knowledge, charm, and finesse she possessed, but to no avail. She had never forgiven Nigel Crowe, the force behind the arrest, and she’d vowed to find the chink in his armor, some bit of evidence that would overturn the harsh sentence placed on a man with poor judgment but no intended violence or destruction.
Mr. Lewis, on the other hand, was quite a dashing hero, and she appreciated his defense of her at the meal’s beginning, when Crowe had wasted little time in finding his way to his personal store of familiar insults. A woman could certainly do worse than spend a dinner being defended by a handsome medic.
Her protective instincts had surged immediately to the surface upon meeting the three men and realizing that Nigel Crowe’s presence aboard the flight was no coincidence. The man didn’t need to visit Port Lucy; he sought to catch one or all three of the shifters in the act. Mr. Quince, especially, engendered a soft spot in Isla’s heart. He was a gentle grandfather, for heaven’s sake, forced from his home because threats had been leveled against either him or his family.
The meal wound to a close, mercifully, and although Mr. Bonadea politely invited her to join them for port and cigars, she cited fatigue and made her excuses for the evening. She also politely declined Captain Pickett’s offer of escort back to her quarters, insisting he remain with the other passengers. “I’ve asked enough of you already,” she told him. “I’ll not be responsible for your dereliction of duty.”
He bowed lightly and replied, “Your wish, madam. We shall see you in the morning then at breakfast. It is prepared by half past five, however the ’tons keep it warmed for those who sleep later.”
Isla bid the gentlemen good evening and crossed the outer top deck, drawing her jacket tight, and muttering. “Wish I could be up at half past five.” Thanks to Melody, Isla, who usually awoke refreshed and energetic at five every morning was no longer able to do so. Six was now the earliest she could manage, and she arose feeling like death.
She ventured close to the side and peeked around the sail windscreens, holding her breath at the stiff gust of wind that caught her face as she squinted to see the world below. They were well away from England, and the ocean stretched out eternally, dark and mysterious. She’d never been on the other side of the Atlantic, and now that she had time to think, she found it intimidating. She’d been so worried about finding passage to get to Malette that she hadn’t really considered how far from home, from everything and everyone familiar, she was going to be.
The huge propeller on the ship’s side sliced through the air with a comforting, if loud, rhythm, and she looked overhead at the enormous balloon attached to the ship with cables as thick as her arm. She grew dizzy and steadied herself against the bulwark. The airship was a scientific marvel, truly magnificent, and although she’d flown plenty of times in her life, she’d never taken time to be still and appreciate the sheer size and power of the vessel.
She sighed and rotated her head, stretching her neck and massaging her knotted muscles with fingertips that were numb with cold. Had it only been forty-eight hours since Hazel had told her Malette’s curse might become permanent? Since then, her sole purpose had been to find the witch. And when she’d learned that Malette was in the Caribbean, she’d felt a panic like no other. All things considered, she was better off on this flight than a larger, commercial one. Other than Nigel Crowe’s insidious presence, there were far fewer people to interfere, to ask questions. She would be safer at night while she slept.
Isla made her way to the first mate’s cabin and switched on a small Tesla lamp before shutting the door and locking it. She readied for bed, but felt restless. She withdrew her diary and pen and sat at the small table near the bed.
Captain Pickett: irascible, impatient, arrogant
Adam Lewis: pleasant, well-mannered, charming
Arnold Quince: gentle, kindhearted, patient
Jacob Bonadea: intelligent, professional, genial
Nigel Crowe: spawn of the underworld
She supposed that last bit was unfair, but she’d never met anyone with such a strong dislike for shifters. She suspected some of his vitriol stemmed from fear, from not understanding that the majority of predatory shifters were no danger to the human population. Scientific studies showed clearly and repeatedly that the temperament of the animal reflected that of the human. If a man were not a murderer as a human, he would not be so as a wolf, either. Instinct remained when a person shifted, however, so proper containment or arrangements were necessities for those who lived with families or in densely populated areas.
Unfortunately, many shifters had limited options, so unintentional destruction of property or general mayhem were often incidental consequences of their poverty and lack of resources. Some shifters self-medicated with illegal botanical aids, but that often led to painful addictions or even death.
Isla sighed and snapped shut her diary. She tossed it inside her portmanteau and pulled out a book she’d bought the day before. A colleague had developed a new treatment, a hypnosis that could affect the shifter’s behavior even while in animal form during the full moon. The implications were tremendous. If a shifter’s human brain could exert control over the animal’s instincts, many of the population’s current problems could be mitigated.
She secured the lamp into a docking station on the nightstand next to the bed and settled under the covers.
This will be the night. I will read and lose myself in the book, and it will keep me awake half the night. I’ll be tired tomorrow, but happy, because I will have stayed awake . . .
If only . . .
Every night she hoped for the same thing, and every morning she realized the curse was still in place. With a sigh, she cracked open her new book and burrowed down, intending to read the whole night through. After a few fits and starts, and rereading the same two paragraphs repeatedly, she finally quieted her mind enough to focus. Time slipped by, and she was nearly halfway through the book when she yawned and rubbed her eyes.
She retrieved her pocket watch from under her pillow where she kept it next to a small dagger. Five minutes until midnight. She swallowed her disappointment. She’d hoped more time had passed. In five minutes, she would lose consciousness, her heartrate and breathing would slow dramatically, and she would remain in that state, entirely unrevivable, until six in the morning.
She huffed out a frustrated breath and closed the book. She replaced the pocket watch and turned down the lamp, but not entirely. The remaining minutes ticked by, and she felt herself slipping into that deep, dark place of nothingness. A place that was void of anything. A place where even nightmares might have been a comfort.
Her limbs grew heavy, her chest rising and falling in its own rhythm that she was powerless to control, and she fell noiselessly into the abyss, her last conscious thought a soundless protest of frustration and fear.
Light pierced like a blade through Isla’s still-closed eyes all the way to the back of her skull. She groaned and turned her face into the bed, the familiar lethargy clinging to her as she clawed her way to the surface. This was perhaps the most disconcerting part of it all. Morning had always been her favorite, her most productive, time of day. As her career had demanded it, she’d adjusted to staying alert throughout the night, but her natural biological rhythms favored the sunrise. How she missed the feeling!
She cursed Melody with the same long litany of muttered insults that she did every morning; it had somehow become her routine, and she didn’t feel complete without it. “Die a thousand hideous deaths . . . I should stretch you out on a rack . . . Marry you off to a doddering old man . . .” She thrust the covers aside and rolled out of bed. The ship pitching beneath her feet made her more disoriented than usual. They must be flying through turbulent air, and she decided the blame for that could also be laid at Melody’s feet.
Isla closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, blowing out slowly as her heart picked up speed, and she felt the tingling of increased blood flow in her extremities. She shook out her hands and looked to be sure they’d regained their proper color. To her dismay initially, atop every other indignity that accompanied the curse, her skin was tinged a light blue when she awoke each morning. She’d sworn to kill Melody if word spread—even among family—that Dr. Isla Cooper was nearly dead every night, so she’d had a bear of a time explaining her appearance when her cousin Emmeline stopped by early one morning.
Emme routinely organized marches against the PSRC in protest of the registry and their harassment of the shifter community, and that morning, she had a handful of advertisements for Isla and Melody to distribute.
“You’re blue,” she had stated.
“I’m cold,” had been Isla’s response, and Emme had studied her, brows drawn. Isla was rarely cold.
She stomped her feet now, and, as the ship lifted in altitude, she stumbled against the bulkhead with a loud thud and winced. She added a bruised shoulder to her list of complaints against her sister. “Definitely marrying you off to a doddering old man, who has no teeth and foul breath.” She yanked open the wardrobe and was pulling out fresh clothing when a knock sounded on the connecting door.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Yes?” she called and looked down at her hands. She frowned and shook them again.
“I heard a noise—did you fall?” Captain Pickett’s deep voice sounded through the door.
“I am fine.”
There was a pause. “Not much of a morning person, then?”
She sighed silently. “No. Never have been.”
“I did mention breakfast is kept on warmers, so you needn’t be up so soon.”
There was no way in blazes Isla would sleep one moment longer than necessary. “I hate to waste the day.”
Another pause. “We are aboard a ship, and you’re a paying passenger.” She thought she heard a smirk in his voice. “You could lay abed all day if you chose.”
She closed her eyes and lightly thumped her head against the wardrobe. “Oh, you know, make hay while the sun shines and all that.”
The next pause was significantly longer. “Yes. Well, I shall be in the wheelhouse most of the morning. I trust you can entertain yourself.”
She ground her teeth together. “I can indeed. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
This time she definitely heard the smirk.
“Honestly,” she muttered and quickly readied herself for the day. The light pouring through the bank of angled windows was still painful to her, but she preferred it to the dark. She had come to hate the dark.
The wardroom had only one passenger for breakfast—Mr. Quince, who smiled warmly. “The oatmeal is delightful, as is the toast and jam.”
The thought of food turned Isla’s stomach, yet another side effect of the spell. She wouldn’t be hungry for at least another hour, but tea was a welcome start to the day. She poured herself a cup of Earl Grey and sat next to Mr. Quince.
“Did you sleep well, Dr. Cooper?”
She blew softly across the rim of her teacup. “Like the dead.” She took a sip and smiled. “And you?”
“Quite well, thank you.” Mr. Quince ate in silence and glanced at Isla a few times. She sensed he wanted to say something but was clearly reticent.
“Did you have a question for me, Mr. Quince? People are often curious about my work, but do not always know what to ask.” She felt her energy returning by degrees and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She smiled at the older man, seeking to put him at ease.
He nodded and relaxed the death grip he held on his spoon. “Do you know a shifter on sight? That is, can you differentiate someone who shifts from the normal population?”
“Ah, Mr. Quince, but what is normal, really? We all have differences, and every one of us has issues, challenges, traits.” She shrugged. “I see nothing abnormal about the shifter population at all. A shifter is a person. A human.”
He nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright.
“But yes, I can recognize full shifters on sight—not always, but usually.” She paused. “I would hope that any shifter who knows of my work also knows I never stand in judgment, that my first concern is always the well-being of that person and his or her family.” She lowered her voice. “It is certainly no secret that I have issues with current rules and regulations in play by certain committees. I believe some laws are meant to be broken.”
He cleared his throat, his eyes teary, and he blinked. “I imagine a shifter of any sort would be nervous to be on a flight, a long flight, with a member of the government who wielded certain power.”
“And I would imagine that such a person need not fear with an experienced shifter professional aboard. One skilled not only in hunting but also in defensive arts.” She smiled gently. “I shall protect you, Mr. Quince,” she whispered.
His expression tightened. “Although I am leaving the country without permission or having registered my name with the committee?” He paused. “It is illegal.”
“It is necessary.” She placed her hand on his arm and leaned close. “The committee is heinous and discriminatory. Positive changes are coming, but in the meantime, we must keep people—families—safe.” She sighed. “The queen is aging, and I fear there are elements in certain circles that have escaped her notice. But I firmly believe that there are more enlightened people than not, that there is more good in the world than bad.”
She gave his arm a light squeeze, and he patted her hand while blinking rapidly. Motion at the doorway drew her attention as Mr. Lewis and Nigel Crowe entered and perused the sideboard. Her nostrils flared of their own accord, and she had barely smoothed her face into a polite mask when Crowe gave her what he probably thought was a pleasant smile.
“Ah, Miss Cooper. You grace this meal with your feminine charm.”
She glanced at Mr. Quince with a smile. “And with that, I am off.” She stood and took a perverse satisfaction at Crowe�
��s clear distaste of her ensemble. She wore breeches and custom Hessian boots. She knew her blouse and corset emphasized her “feminine charm” to perfection, but she would also wager Nigel Crowe was a man who disapproved of any woman in breeches.
“I leave you in the capable company of Mr. Lewis,” she murmured to Mr. Quince, who smiled tightly at the newcomers. “Perhaps later you will meet me in the library? I would love to discuss your work. I imagine it is fascinating.”
“Dr. Cooper.” Mr. Lewis tipped his head as he made his way to the table with a plate of food. “A beautiful morning, is it not? We seem to have moved above much of the stormy air. Captain believes we’ll see smooth sailing for the rest of the day.”
“Excellent.” She returned his smile, wondering how many hearts he had broken with his.
“I am not certain I trust these modern scientific instruments.” Mr. Quince frowned. “The older materials seemed more accurate.”
Lewis placed a napkin in his lap and turned his attention to his food as he answered. “The world has come to accept the aneroid barometer as a legitimate tool.” He added under his breath, “For nearly fifty years, now.”
“But there’s no liquid in it. In my day, barometers used mercury. And they were stationary. Very reliable.”
“These are portable. Therein lies the benefit . . .”
Nigel Crowe watched the exchange with a smirk, and Isla made her exit, blaming Melody for the fact that she was obliged to spend three weeks with him. Isla had heaped so many sins at her sister’s feet that absolution was a guaranteed impossibility.