Lust Plague (Steamwork Chronicles)

by Silverwood, Cari

  Could she ever be a military captain again? The ability to be there for people yet to also be aloof and make the hard decisions, to sacrifice the few so that the many might survive—that distancing ability seemed beyond her grasp.

  The rest of that first day smudged into one gray mess. With doctors and nurses prodding her, having her ear sutured under ether anesthesia, then being debriefed, it all become too much for her memory. She crashed onto her bunk and slept like the dead. And the dead haunted her dreams. Snaggle-toothed, face-rotting zombies with glaring orange eyes and mouths that groaned and bit.

  When Kaysana awoke on the fourth morning, the ship was floating above a green patchwork of fields. The ship’s name, the Queen Margeurite, went well with the opulence that gleamed from every fitting. Even her little cabin was superb in every way, from the silver-framed mirrors to the carved headboard and the toothbrush glass with its gold interlocking QM.

  Breakfast of sausages and eggs, fruit and cream arrived on a silver tray brought in by a steward in perfect white trousers, shirt, and coat. After depositing the tray on a little bedside table, he nodded and left. The crimson-uniformed guard saw him out the door—another Brito-Gallic soldier. Half those aboard seemed to be Brito-Gallic. She’d heard the Brito-Gallics had all been volunteers, and though the scientists had worked out a moderately safe way to pick those resistant to the plague, it hadn’t been foolproof. To risk becoming a zombie to help strangers seemed the bravest of acts.

  “Thanks, Martin.” She’d asked the guard his name days ago. “I’m not a zombie today.”

  “I can see that, ma’am.” He tapped two fingers to his cap and shut the door.

  Grim but unobtrusive. A steady man. Unlike the other survivors, she had a room to herself. But she still had a guard. Everyone seemed to have a guard…except the guards themselves.

  If I was going to turn into a zombie, I’d be one already. Being alone gave her time to think and to ponder things, like her wound. In the mirror, her ear looked frightful. Only a bit missing? With such words, the doctor had dismissed her vain fears. Quickly dismissed, but not effectively. I look like a chewed-up dog toy. The skin was puffy and red. She pulled a face. What man would find her pretty?

  “Gah! Why am I bothering over prettiness? As if I’m trying to…” She frowned. As if I want to attract Sten.

  Staring at the ceiling or at the porthole at the foot end of her bed had grown boring. Four days and they’d not talked. She got the feeling he waited for her to go to him.

  I’m not a coward. Why am I hiding in here? When had facing him become so much harder to do than killing zombies?

  No GAM uniform meant she had to wear the assortment she’d been given. She tugged down the Brito-Gallic infantry jacket she’d donned for warmth and frowned into the mirror. Teamed with the pair of cream hosepipe trousers and the white blouse, she looked neat if a little buxom—the blouse size wasn’t quite right. Still, the bright red jacket suited her complexion.

  Four days and the Queen M., as the leftover staff called her affectionately, was no closer to returning across the border. Her report had been sent away by radiophony. They were picking up survivors, scouring for stray zombies, and rendering assistance, she’d been told by Captain Hilary Nordluck. Quarantine, said ship’s gossip. Likely that was correct. The luxury wasn’t hard on her, but avoiding Sten was. So today she would fix that little problem.

  An hour after a monotonous yet first-class lunch, she set out for the sick bay with her guard in tow.

  On the way, her boots sank into the red carpet like a spoon into cream. That and the frosted glass sconces still impressed her—such minor novelties, yet pure elegance compared with the timber floors and steel voltaic lights on the Art of War. As she came near the sick bay, the pop and slam of someone playing ball echoed in the hallway.

  Two immaculate GAM guards on either side of the double doors stared over her head.

  “Afternoon.” She smiled.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” they replied without moving anything except their mouths.

  If I have to get sick, she thought, peeking in the door to the sick bay, this is where I’ll go. She wandered in past the timber and etched glass doors. The male survivors had ended up here where the aft lounge used to be. The women, all seven of them, had the forward lounge. No one here looked very sick anymore, apart from a few bandages, though a table was set up with stethoscopes, paperwork, bandages, and thermometers. A scream from a distant part of the ship made her wince—some had not retained their sanity.

  Opposite the entranceway, French-style doors led to a narrow balcony where huge semicircular hopper windows could be opened out onto the sky they cruised through. Of all the things to find—windows, on an airship. But the Queen M. was full of such contradictions.

  Bright sunlight cast curved blocks of yellow across carpet and walls. A small red ball whizzed past along the balcony, and Sten whooped in merriment. He was out there somewhere.

  “Ten to two. You are never catching me, son!”

  “Am too!” The high-pitched laughter could only be from the boy, Miguel. There were no other children aboard.

  From behind her, the guards’ voices carried over the game. “Thinks he’s some big hero, doesn’t he? Frankenstructs! Who’d have thought anyone would call one a hero?”

  Well, well. It was probably deliberate—they’d pitched their voices so she’d hear them. Wasn’t the first she’d heard of a rumbling discontent, but it was the most overt. The Brito-Gallics praised Sten, but some of the GAM and those few PME soldiers who were part of the rescue force seemed unhappy that a frankenstruct had saved the world.

  Going back to chew them out was tempting but unlikely to do more than make them resent her interference.

  She steered through the bunks to the French doors, where Cadrach lay sprawled on his belly, watching whatever was happening out there.

  “Hey, boy.” She leaned down and ruffled the base of his ear.

  The balcony stretched about ten yards along the side of the airship. At one end of it stood the boy while at the other end, Sten was poised with a red ball in his bandaged hand, ready to serve. He drew back his unbandaged hand, ready to hit the ball. The doctor’s words flitted through her head. A week to heal, he’d torn his skin away to full thickness, and he was playing handball.

  She thrust her arm out into the passage.

  “Stop! Now! Miguel, please go inside. Sten should be resting, not playing ball.” At the boy’s wobbling lip and wide stare, she flashed him a grin. “I’m not cross with you, just making sure Sten doesn’t hurt himself. Could you give me some time to talk with him?”

  The boy nodded. “Sure. I’ll go find Papi.” He scampered into the room, then ran back out and came up to her, rising on tiptoes and whispering, “I got something to say.”

  She went down on one knee. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” Then he kissed her cheek and ran away.

  With one hand to her cheek, she rose, smiling to herself. Mingzhu would never be alive again, but somehow this helped.

  “You look stunned.” Bouncing the ball off the floor as he went, Sten sauntered toward her. Tens of the little purple stitches showed on the palm of his right hand.

  “I am.” The confident manner, the enticing way the V of his shirt opened…she clamped down on the thoughts he sent scampering through her head. “I’m so glad he said that. It…made everything worthwhile. And now you put that ball down and stop bouncing it. Your hands aren’t healed.”

  “No? I think I can judge that. You’ve no idea how many wounds I’ve had over the years.” The under-the-brow stare he nailed her with made her want to back away and leave.

  Nope, not going. Besides her feet seemed cemented to the spot.

  “Tell you what.” He was close enough now that she could’ve sworn she could feel his body heat in the air. “You say my name and ask nicely”—he took her hand and turned it over, put the red ball on her palm, and closed her fingers over it—“and I’ll do
whatever you want me to.”

  “Whatever?” Why did her voice have to shake? And now he was close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up into those blue, blue sexy eyes. Damn.

  “Whatever.”

  Okay. “Sten, please stop…” She stared at him, breath lodged in her throat, teetering between teasing him and not. “Please stop fucking up your hands.”

  The moment strung out, until crinkles appeared around his eyes. He laughed. “Good one. Now you can tell me what ‘whatever’ means.”

  So there it was. She’d said Sten’s name out loud, several times, without fainting, and now he was only looking at her like she was some sort of unexpected birthday present. She sent him a scowl before going back into the room, tossing the ball onto a bed, and snaring two wicker chairs.

  Not perfect for privacy, and maybe some people would think it a smear on her reputation to be out here with Sten, but the balcony would do. When she turned back from closing the French doors, she found Sten already slouched in one chair with his feet propped on the sill of one of the semicircular windows he’d shoved open.

  “Afternoon, Kaysana.”

  The seats were barely an inch apart. He’d shifted them closer. Sneaky, like always, but she didn’t try to change it.

  “Afternoon.”

  He’d barely moved an eyebrow, and yet here she was fighting to stop her heart from leaping from her chest.

  “I hate you,” she muttered, trying not to look, again, at the way his biceps flexed when he flicked dust off his trousers. So nice to look at… The man was dangerous to women just by being.

  “Oh?”

  “And stop grinning at me. I’m not here to worship your feet.”

  He took her hand in his right, unbandaged one, brought it to his lips, and kissed softly across her knuckles, one by one. “I know that.”

  Thank goodness, because she hadn’t been sure herself. Up close to Sten, the rules of her world seemed to bend.

  She pulled her hand from his and rested her arm on the side of the wicker chair. Where to start? Safer by far to settle against the cushion and watch clouds go past. Pots of climbing roses were spaced between the windows, and where Sten’s boot touched the sill, green tendrils curled out. The rush of turbulence from the airship’s passage ruffled the plant’s leaves. The red half-open buds bobbed to and fro. Perfume wafted in. Ridiculous, having pots of flowering roses on an airship, and yet also precisely right. They banished evil. No growling undead creeping up on her. No blood or screams. The roses exuded serenity.

  Sten placed his hand over hers on the armrest, then let his finger and thumb slip over her wrist, subtly pinning her to the cane. The sutures tickled her skin, and a little shock trammeled through her. Did he know how this affected her? She wasn’t telling him. But she could just sit here and revel in how the weight of his hand on her flesh coaxed threads of coiling heat from between her legs and up her body.

  Yes, it was nice, but she’d never ever say it to him.

  At last she broke the silence.

  “You wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yes, I did.” Nothing more. He seemed far more absorbed in a flock of birds sweeping past than in her, but his index finger drew a tiny circle on the underside of her wrist. Was he waiting for her? Why? He’d never been shy in saying, or doing, anything before.

  She wriggled her bottom sideways on the chair. “You know you could have a separate cabin. You don’t have to stay here with the men. Ask the captain. I’m sure she’ll oblige.”

  “I like it here. The boy has nightmares. He dreams of zombies. So do half the men. By being here, I help the boy, and he helps them. Having him run about terrorizing us all, playing and all that, squealing—it makes them laugh. Some grumble, but even that’s better than being scared.”

  “That’s…” She turned and met his eyes. Like his hand on hers, it bothered her, but nicely. “That’s very noble of you.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.” Not only did she love the way he touched her, he was also noble…and next he’d be saving puppies from drowning. Horrible man. She sighed.

  “You okay, Kaysana?”

  “Tell me, do you have nightmares? I only ask because a doctor on the first day we arrived here said you were worried by the people you killed.”

  He frowned. “It does worry me, but I can handle it. How about you? Nightmares?”

  “God, yes.” Every night the shadows on the walls turned malevolent. “I sleep with the light on.”

  “I could teach you how to use Zen to calm yourself, you know.” The curl of sandy hair swaying across his eye made her want to brush it aside, to caress his face.

  “Private lessons? Hmm?” She shook her head. “You just want to drag me into bed.”

  The grin splitting his face made him so youthful. “True, but I also like talking to you, helping you. I don’t like knowing you’re scared and not being able to do anything about it.”

  Again with the nobility, the friendliness, and the damn concern. She closed her eyes, shutting everything out. Seeing him made it harder anyway. Why did he have to be so nice?

  His hand lifted from her wrist.

  The small shift of shadows, the creak of his chair, and the smell of rubber from handling the ball warned her and meant she didn’t flinch when he cupped her chin, then traced her bottom lip with his thumb. After a few seconds she succumbed and licked him. He put his thumb between her lips. Just that thrilled her—and with his nearness and scent, arousal unfurled, blossomed. She sucked gently, then released him. When he didn’t touch her again, she opened her eyes and found him watching her, his mouth tight, his gaze fierce with longing.

  “Come here. Sit on my lap. Just for a while.”

  “No,” she whispered, her throat thick. “Sten…I…” She swore quietly. What did she want to say? She thought of and rejected half a dozen phrases while once again he waited with that infernal patience. “You’re too much. We’re wrong for each other. I couldn’t stay with you. Besides, what we did before, together, was not me. I’m not a woman who wants to be under the thumb of a man, day and night.”

  But those words weren’t quite right either, because really, the idea of Sten tying her up, dominating her sent feral signals into every part of her being. Right and wrong, and who she was, were tangled in a mess of knots.

  “What makes you think I want you under my thumb day and night?”

  “No?”

  “No.” He rose and perched on the edge of the window, leaned on the side column, and got comfortable. The open window framed him like some gorgeous living painting.

  “Um. Careful there. It’s a long way down if you fall. We’re at six hundred feet and clouds don’t slow you down much.”

  “Would you catch me if I fell?”

  “Of course!” Alarmed, every detail in front of her etched into her brain. Cold sent icy fingers into her chest. For a few long seconds, she didn’t dare close her eyes. What was he suggesting? Joking, surely? For a second there, she’d imagined just that—Sten falling backward.

  Like a shifting sea, his expression changed from what seemed to be mild amusement to puzzlement to almost sadness. His eyes darkened; then he raked his hand through his hair. “Don’t you see? I like you as you are. There’s sex and there’s everything else. It’s the everything else I see in you that calls to me, here.” Sten thumped his fist over his heart. “Can you sit there and say truthfully you’ve not imagined us together?”

  Oh. She eyed his hand where it still lay over his heart. The more she said, the deeper the hole she’d dig for herself. “Maybe, but then reality comes back.”

  “Reality? Like your grandfather and honor, duty, all that? That’s all your world. I could fit you into mine in an eye blink. I’d take you up into the mountains, show where I go to get away from all the crap the world throws at you. My favorite time is sitting on my porch in the morning watching the sun come up over the valley before my little hut. Dew on the grass, a mug of coffee warming my
hands.”

  “It does sound nice.” Her voice rasped out low.

  “Yeah. You get used to the hustle and bustle of the fish in the pond pretty quick.” He shifted his legs. “I’d like it even better if you were there on that porch seat with me. We could keep each other warm, trade kisses. You know?”

  How had he done that? Felt like he’d just pulled a long, long thread from her heart. She could smell the coffee on the air, feel his body next to hers, thigh to thigh. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not me, Sten.”

  “It’s not you? Dammit. Ask your grandfather about me. At least get a no or a yes from him. And the air fleet, surely there’s ways to keep an…a relationship going?”

  This was going too deep. She didn’t want to think about this, at all. “Look, I know you wanted to talk some more, but I can’t do this. I have to go.”

  She stood, pushing back the chair into the wall. “Good-bye.”

  “You can’t? Sounds like a weak excuse to me, Kaysana. Wait.” He shoved his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out the silver wolf’s pendant. “I want you to have this. Might bring you luck. It guided Cadrach to you. At least this way, no matter what happens, I can feel like part of me is guarding you.” He dangled the chain across her upturned palm.

  “Thank you.” It was still warm from his body. Careful not to drop it, she looked at it, recalling the wolf’s arrival in the midst of the zombie pack. And Sten saying that—about him guarding her—so nice. Her lip threatened to quiver. She placed the pendant in her inside coat pocket. “I really do appreciate this.”

  “My pleasure.” He heaved in a breath. “You know, I never thought to see you run from fear.”

  “Fear?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “Yes, don’t you think I saw how you reacted when I touched you?” She curled her lip, ready to deny his words. Better to dash his hopes. “It’s been days since the plague affected me, and you’re free of it too, Kaysana. Yet if I do this…”

  Suddenly he swept away his chair as if it were made of feathers, and crowded her. He took her by the wrists and held them above her head, crossed together, against the wall.