by Zoë Archer
But the water was dark, and it buffeted him as he slogged across the sea floor. The stones in his pockets kept him weighted enough to prevent being tossed around like flotsam. Walking along the sea floor took a long time, but trying to fight against the waves above would have been even more time consuming. Farther he strode, and the weight of the water increased, so each step onward became a colossal struggle against the whole of the ocean. Sand swirled, scraping his face and eyes. He glanced up to see the moon gleaming faintly far above the surface.
All around him, shapes of rocks loomed, and he threaded through them to reach the sunken ship. The ruined ship materialized from the darkness—a hulk of submerged wood and metal, its portholes like black sightless eyes. It lay in two pieces: the front of the ship rested on the sea floor, and jagged timbers marked where the ship had split upon the rocks. The aft, severed from the front, jutted up toward the surface. Floating amidst the wreckage were coils of rope, spectral yards of canvas swaying in underwater currents, articles of clothing.
All was not darkness on the ship. The glow of a hundred pairs of undead eyes dotted the vessel’s remains. Some of the living dead were ensnared in the ropes above decks, writhing like eels, but most were below. Their hands pressed whitely against the portholes, their gleaming eyes peering between the shattered planks. The creatures wore dark blue Royal Marine Artillery uniforms—Sam had fought with Marines in Crimea, and they’d been stalwart fighters, but these Marines had been ripped from the peace of death to do far worse than simple combat.
God didn’t know for what Broadwell meant to use these Marines, but the Devil surely did. And approved.
When the resurrected soldiers espied Sam trudging toward them over the sea floor, his own eyes aglow, they began to cry out and reach for him, recognizing him as a fellow member of the damned. A collective sound of outrage and confusion, carried in currents by the water.
As he neared the ship, he saw that nearly all of the Marines clustered in the central part of the vessel, blocked in by heavy fallen beams and cannon. The soldiers pushed at the hull the closer Sam got. The wood groaned at the pressure, but held. For now.
Another cabin held half a dozen men that watched Sam approach. They appeared more bewildered than hostile. None of them moved, until a force rocked through them. Sam, too, felt it. A hard tug on his mind, his control. Commanding the undead men, commanding him.
Broadwell. The bastard was nearby, but somehow, Sam hadn’t been able to sense him.
Obey me, Broadwell now demanded. My will overrides yours.
Sam staggered as he fought Broadwell’s control. He refused to give in. To lose his autonomy and be, once more, merely a pawn. But it had been years since Broadwell had tried to force his way into Sam’s brain, and, like an unused muscle, his mental barricades against this manipulation had atrophied.
Grimacing, he saw the Marines sway as Broadwell’s will overpowered their own. Sam’s will shuddered and began to buckle under the pressure. A dark miasma crept through his mind, commandeering his limbs. He felt his legs move, driven into motion by an outside force. Surrender to me. I made you and I always command you.
Sam’s control slipped even further. No! He had to fight, to resist, but he felt himself scrabbling along a steep embankment with nothing to hold to. Almost lost.
Then—a newfound source of strength. Something bright and fierce. Pushing back at the numbing darkness. Cassandra.
He pictured her lovely face, her amber eyes full of intelligence and humor. The sleek curves of her body. He thought of her stubbornness, her independence. And as Sam felt his will slipping away, her voice called him back. Fight this, Sam. Hold strong, as I know you can.
Three years had seen him cursed to this half existence. And for two of those years, he’d been utterly alone, using every ounce of his strength to survive another day, if only for the sake of vengeance. Yet he wasn’t alone now. Cassandra’s presence on the shore burned like a torch. He used her light to guide his path back to himself.
With a soundless roar, Sam shoved Broadwell from his mind. An exhausting effort that left him infuriatingly drained—but triumphant. Later, he would thank her.
If he survived until later. The six Marines in the upper cabin pushed against the hull. The wood split open, and the soldiers clambered out to stand on the sea floor. They wore officers’ uniforms and swords. Sam saw now they’d been trapped within the officers’ mess. But now they moved, en masse, toward Sam. Their faces were white and blank, but as they trudged toward him across the sea floor, Sam saw their intent. They drew their swords. Broadwell had commanded the undead soldiers to take Sam’s head.
Sam pulled the rocks from his pockets and let them tumble to the sandy sea floor. Now able to swim, he kicked off, launching himself toward the stern of the ship. Leaving the men behind.
He glanced back as he swam, and saw the soldiers had turned back to the ship and were now climbing up its sides.
As he swam, he saw that there was no way into the vessel except through the large window of the captain’s cabin at the rear. And that lay above the water’s surface. He swam with hard, powerful strokes, heading upward, until he breached the surface. Above, out of the protective silence of the water, everything was a tumult of waves and spray. He couldn’t see the shore, couldn’t find Cassandra. And if Broadwell was out there, the bastard still kept himself hidden. Sam had to trust that Cassandra would be safe for the next few minutes while he found some way to thwart Broadwell’s plans and end the Marines’ suffering.
Sam coughed up lungfuls of water, then swam to the hull of the ship and pulled himself up onto it. Waves slapped him as he climbed up the vessel’s side. With a groan, he hauled himself toward the row of windows running the length of the stern. A few panes had broken, but nothing was wide enough to accommodate him. He drew back a fist, then slammed it into the window, shattering glass. Sharp surfaces cut into the skin of his hands, and along his body and face as he lowered himself into the cabin.
He slid along the sharply tilted floorboards, then braced himself against a low half wall separating the cabin. What had once been the captain’s luxurious quarters was now a sideways shambles—furniture in broken heaps, charts and maps sodden masses, and what had once been a prized silver tea service now nothing but dented trash.
Sam knew without looking that what he searched for wasn’t to be found in the unlucky captain’s quarters. He eased himself along the floor until he reached the door, which he wrested open.
More chaos in this part of the ship. Everything angled steeply, and it was nigh impossible to gain a sense of orientation. With his sword strapped to his back, he clung to whatever he could find, keeping himself from falling down into the water that filled the other end of the ship. The vessel echoed with the moans of the hundred undead Marines trapped in the hold. Through the water at the bottom of the passageway, Sam saw them, their glowing eyes, trying to pull themselves up toward him.
He needed to act fast. He crawled through the labyrinth of the ship’s interior, searching. A grim smile curled the corner of his mouth when he spotted his goal. Powder kegs. Just beyond, he spotted the open door to the magazine, where more containers of gunpowder were jumbled.
He clambered toward the magazine, praying the powder in the kegs was still good. Demolitions didn’t usually fall to the responsibility of a company’s major, but Sam liked to know how every aspect of his army functioned, and had learned enough to light a charge, including a delayed charge.
Inside the magazine, he discovered a large hole in the bulkhead that he hadn’t seen in his swim. It revealed the beach, a ghostly strand. Peering through the gaping timbers, he searched for Cassandra. No sign of her. He forced down his immediate fear. She could have gone for a better view elsewhere. Right now, he had to concentrate on his task. Those six officers had broken out of the wreckage, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of the soldiers in the hold also escaped.
A soldier’s body draped limply across the magazine
’s floor, his head crushed by a fallen timber. No wonder he hadn’t risen with the others.
Sam turned from the body and found not only enough dry powder to demolish the ship, but also lengths of treated cord for fuses. The small room that stored the munitions and power was dark as ink, yet Sam’s enhanced vision enabled him to see enough. With hands shredded from the glass, he made fuses, attaching them to whatever gunpowder was dry enough to work.
The process took damned longer than he wanted—Cassandra was alone on the beach, and Broadwell lurked somewhere nearby. Sam had to get back, protect her. His cold blood turned even icier to think of her facing Broadwell on her own. If that son of a bitch even touched her while Sam was stuck in this waterlogged tomb, then Broadwell’s only relief from Sam’s vengeance would be death.
Done. He twisted the last of the fuse cord into the main fuse and adhered it to the final keg of dry powder. From his pocket, he pulled a flint, then struck it against his partially drawn sword. Sparks flared. They caught the main fuse as he sheathed his sword. Slowly, the fire crept up the cord, inching toward the gunpowder. Within minutes, this ship and everyone aboard it would disappear from the world, all blown to pieces.
And when that happened, Sam planned to be ashore, watching the explosion with Cassandra beside him.
Sparks from the fuses caught on the wooden bulkheads. Within moments, tongues of flame licked along any dry timber.
Satisfied with his work, he pulled himself from the magazine. He dangled for a moment as he hung on the open doorway, regaining his balance, readying himself for the difficult climb out of the ship.
Chill hands latched onto his legs.
Cassandra paced the beach. God, how long would this grim task take? Sam might not be able to drown—she doubted she’d ever forget the image of him walking into and beneath the waves like a returning sea god—but other dangers lurked below the water. He could be pinned by the treacherous rocks or trapped in the wreckage. There wasn’t a damned thing she could do to help him, either. She’d learned to swim, but in a placid lake, not the angry sea. If she tried to swim out to him, she wouldn’t last five minutes. And even if a rowboat was nearby, she and it would be dashed on the rocks as she attempted to row out to the ship.
Waiting passively on the beach while Sam endangered himself infuriated her. She needed to be useful, active.
In frustration, she picked up one of the small rocks at her feet and threw it toward the sea. It made a tiny splash just at the edge of the water. Rather than helping ease her exasperation, this sign of her lack of physical strength only annoyed her further.
“And I can’t see a bloody thing,” she snarled to herself. Her vantage on the beach only offered minimal visibility of the wrecked ship. Large rocks in the water blocked her view. She tried sitting in the saddle, but still didn’t gain enough height.
The promontory. It rose up tall above the water, topped with a flat patch of earth. Had she been a smuggler, it would have made a perfect spot to look out to sea for approaching rum runner ships. She didn’t care about illegal rum or silk or tea or any other cursed thing—she only needed to watch over Sam. And from atop the high bluff, she could do just that.
She hobbled the horses, removed her cloak, and put the guns into her pockets. Then she hurried across the sand to reach the promontory. Standing at its base, she gazed up at the rocky pinnacle. Its sides were sloped yet appeared easily scalable, but then, as they neared the top, they became almost perpendicular. Many years had passed since she’d last climbed a tree. She had to trust her strength to get her to the top of the promontory. At least hand-and footholds abounded.
She drew a deep breath, and ascended the steep incline. Thoughts of Sam urged her on, even as her legs began to burn, even as the incline gave way to a nearly vertical climb and she pushed and pulled herself up the side. Rocks bit into her hands and scraped her face as she clambered upward, and she scrabbled a few times when the rocks under her feet tumbled loose. Only once did she make the mistake of looking down. Thank God night veiled distance, so that she was only aware of the pale beach somewhere below her.
At last, her whole body shaking with effort, she dragged herself up and over the top. For a moment, she sprawled on her stomach, panting. Then she rose to her feet.
And found herself face-to-face with Colonel Kenneth Broadwell.
A space of ten feet separated them. They stared at each other, both still, as her mind whirled. She hadn’t seen him standing here from the beach—darkness must have hidden him. He’d been expecting her, because he stood, relaxed but ready. Cassandra saw in his posture a similarity to Sam, the presence of military bearing, but Broadwell was wiry and lean where Sam was prolific with muscle. Moonlight turned Broadwell’s graying hair silver, yet, despite the fact that he was at least fifteen years older than Sam, he was fit and capable, lethal as a coiled snake.
She wondered how he could see her, though, since he wore spectacles with dark lenses.
“My congratulations,” Broadwell murmured. “I didn’t think you could make it all the way up. I thought that certainly you’d fall and split that pretty head of yours wide open.”
“Tenacity has its rewards,” she answered.
He laughed, a remote, metallic sound. “Well answered, Miss.” His geniality disappeared, cold calculation taking its place. “Now who the hell are you and what are you doing here with Samuel Reed?”
He didn’t know she was a Blade. And somewhere on his person was the Source that created the undead. But how to get it? Her hands drifted toward her pockets. Blades couldn’t use magic, but firearms were most definitely allowed when it came to recovering Sources.
“You wouldn’t be reaching for those pistols, would you?” His own pistol came up quickly. “If so, I suggest you stop.”
Blast. Her hands froze.
Broadwell took a step closer, smirking. “What an intriguing puzzle you are. Obviously a lady, but you’re climbing promontories in the middle of night with guns in your pockets. And keeping company with Sam Reed. Do you have any idea what kind of monster he is?”
Anger flared. “I know exactly who and what Sam is. He’s no monster, but you have tried to make him one.”
Broadwell’s brows rose in surprise. “You know everything?” Before she could answer, he drew nearer, peering at her. “Hold—you’ve a familiar look about you.” He came closer, so that only a foot separated them. “A resemblance to someone.”
She turned her face away, but his icy fingers pinched her chin and forced her head back to look at him. She tried to slap his hand from her, but her hands bounced off him uselessly. His dark spectacles were soulless voids, his face sharp and predatory.
“Fielding,” he said. “Charlie Fielding.”
“My brother,” she bit out. Hatred seethed through her. She thought about going for his pistol, but the odds were too good that it would fire in the process. Possibly wounding her.
Another arctic laugh from Broadwell. “That’s right. Fielding had a sister. Always crowed about you when your letters came. His clever little sister.”
Cassandra finally was able to jerk her chin free of his grasp. “I thank God Charlie wasn’t transformed after he died. Sam and the other men weren’t as fortunate.”
“Oh, Fielding would’ve been a perfect zombie.” Broadwell grinned sardonically. “So strong. He could have done some wonderful work—just like Reed did after I changed him. Pity there wasn’t enough of your brother left to make the spell function.”
Fury swept through Cassandra, obliterating everything, even fear. She launched herself at Broadwell, hands curved into claws. Her nails raked down his face before he grabbed her wrists, his grip an iron vise. His pistol fell to the ground.
“What an adorable hellcat you are,” he chuckled.
Maddened, she wrenched and pulled but could not free herself. “And you’re a disgusting worm,” she snarled. “Killing and enslaving men through the perversion of Sources.”
“Sources?” he repeated
. She felt the wintry knife of his gaze, even through his dark glasses. “You’re a Blade of the Rose.” He sneered. “Those idealistic fools let a woman into their ranks.” He twisted his arms, turning Cassandra around so that her back pressed tight against his chest. His arms formed an impenetrable cage around her.
“But where are your friends, the Blades, now?” he hissed in her ear. “You can’t fight me on your own.”
As much as she wanted to deny this, she knew it was true. She simply hadn’t the physical strength necessary to battle Broadwell by herself.
He turned them both so they faced the sunken vessel. “Your only ally is Reed. And my zombies are tearing him apart this very moment.”
She saw him through a gaping wound in the side of the ship—Sam, backlit by flames, as he fought against several undead soldiers below him. They cast dark shapes against the fires, a seething mass of combat. As she watched, two of the undead grabbed Sam by the legs.
Terror and rage flooded her—no, please don’t let anything happen to Sam—but logic gleamed beneath. Stay focused, she told herself. She had to get the Source. Her mission for the Blades demanded this, and if she took the Source away from Broadwell, she could try and stop the undead Marines from destroying Sam. Surely the Blades would forgive her use of magic if it was for a good reason. And no better reason existed than protecting Sam.
The demons of hell tried to drag him under. Not demons, he amended, staring down at the chalky faces of the undead officers. Monsters—like him.
Half a dozen of them reached up from the passageway below, their expressions utterly blank, eyes glowing in the darkness, but their searching hands relentless. Two of them grabbed at Sam’s legs, fastening to his ankles, pulling. Other Marines joined in, clutching the soldiers that held Sam and tugging hard so that the force of six men weighed on Sam’s legs.
Sam, gripping the doorway of the magazine, kicked out. The fingers of one Marine slackened, yet the other held tightly. Sam’s own grip on the door began to loosen.
