Her hot mouth found his neck. A tortured groan welled up from his chest, and she laughed softly. Sharp teeth grazed his jaw before her lips tugged on his earlobe.
“You hold my waist, yet you’re all but holding me away,” she said into his ear. “Is this a no?”
God help him. “Yes.”
“A pity. You’d fall in love with me much faster.”
No doubt. “I don’t want to fall in love too quickly and miss every emotion along the way—even if it leads to frustration and pain.”
“Truly?” Though unable to see her, he sensed that she was studying his expression. “You’re an unusual man, Mr. Fox.”
Then her weight and warmth were gone, his body left aching. A spark lighter flared in the seat opposite; he saw her face, the amused smile, and his cigarillo case—he hadn’t even felt her lift it—before the light died.
“Stay with me anyway,” he said. “Don’t row out to Vesuvius this late. Sleep in my room.”
“I don’t sleep in the same bed as a man.”
Of course she wouldn’t. Not after Bloody Bartholomew. “I’ll use the floor.”
“Uncomfortable for you.”
Better than fishing her body out of the harbor. “There’s an empty room next to mine,” he said. “Sleep there tonight, and I’ll explain it to the house matron in the morning.”
Her pause told him she was considering it. “All right. I’ll need a room soon, anyway.”
“When does Vesuvius sail out?”
“In a few more days.”
The coach shuddered to a halt. Yasmeen didn’t wait for him to open the door. Hopping out, she flicked a coin to the driver. So he had hurt her pride, and now she was stabbing at his—but he’d known she was a difficult woman.
That didn’t make her paying for the cab sting less, especially now that he knew how little money she had. Gritting his teeth, Archimedes followed her through the boardinghouse entrance. A small lamp offered feeble light in the foyer. A boy in tweed trousers, coat, and hat slept on a bench against the wall. Probably some urchin who’d sneaked in from the cold. When Archimedes closed the door, he jerked awake and blinked owlishly.
“Stay there if you like,” Archimedes told him as he passed the bench. “I won’t alert the matron.”
“She knows I’m here, sir.” The boy rubbed his face. “Mr. Gunther-Baptiste?”
Archimedes froze. Ahead, Yasmeen turned smoothly, as if she’d never been headed in the opposite direction. Her gaze found his before she glanced past him, peering into the next room as if searching the darkened parlor for more visitors.
He faced the boy. “I am.”
“A message, sir.” The boy offered him a letter, the paper rolled and tied with a string rather than folded and sealed. “He told me to wait for you. He said if you couldn’t come tonight, to please send a reply that you will come tomorrow morning.”
Dread clutched at Archimedes’ throat, but he took the message and moved closer to the lamp. The Arabic script was small, neat.
Wolfram,
An opportunity for true freedom has arisen, and your assistance would be appreciated. I will explain all when I see you. Please accept my apologies for the abrupt notice and the hasty summons. I depart from Port Fallow tomorrow.
Hassan
Archimedes glanced up at the boy. “Hail that cab again. Tell him to wait for me.”
The boy darted for the door.
“Shall I come?” Yasmeen said. Her fingers rested lightly on the knives sheathed at her thighs.
“No.” He wouldn’t risk her. “It’s only an old friend, but I don’t know when I’ll return. Take my room tonight; I’ll take the other if I need it.”
“Are you certain?” Her gaze slipped over his face as if searching out the truth.
God. He should have kissed her in the cab. But if he kissed her in desperation now, no doubt she’d follow him. “I’m certain,” he said. “Sleep well, Captain.”
She smiled and turned for the stairs. “Beware the barmaids, Mr. Fox.”
Hopefully, that would be all that he had to beware.
Chapter Six
Hassan’s lodgings lay beyond the first canal, in the heart of Port Fallow’s wealthy ring of residences. Archimedes knew the location; when his purse had been heavier, he’d spent several nights in a suite of well-appointed rooms. But although they were larger and more comfortable than in Archimedes’ current boardinghouse, they hardly befitted Temür Agha’s prime counselor.
So did the lack of guards and attention that Archimedes received upon his arrival. A liveried house porter showed him inside, led him up the stairs. The door of Hassan’s suite opened to the porter’s quiet tapping.
Opened by Hassan himself. A grin widened his bearded cheeks. He spread his arms in welcome, the loose sleeves of his knee-length tunic billowing with the movement. A rectangular bulge beneath the linen was the only remaining evidence of the apparatus that had once been grafted to his chest, designed for labor in the Rabat salt factories. The lung tanks had allowed him to remain beneath the surface of the salinity pools while he cleaned the crystallization from the filters—and now, lent a deep metallic resonance to his every breath and word.
“Wolfram!” He came forward, clasping Archimedes’ hand between his. “It is very good to see you.”
A warmer greeting than Archimedes anticipated—or deserved, perhaps. Hassan couldn’t have known that Archimedes had deliberately sunk the barge that carried Temür Agha’s war machines rather than simply losing the shipment, but the counselor might have guessed.
“As it is to see you, Hassan,” he replied. “Though unexpected.”
“Yes, well—Come. Come inside. I will explain all.”
Archimedes followed, disconcerted by the counselor’s ebullience. Though he knew the cause of the difference—Hassan was far enough from the Horde’s control tower in Rabat that the radio signal couldn’t suppress his emotions—in every previous meeting, the counselor had been reserved, choosing each word thoughtfully.
Archimedes was glad for the man, though if Hassan hadn’t had much time to adjust to the change, the counselor might be hoping for a swift return to Morocco. Archimedes had once experienced the tower’s dampening effect, and the terrifying inability to feel what he’d known he ought to feel still lingered like a cancer in his mind. Yet Hassan had lived his entire life under its influence. It was possible that the strength of the man’s emotions would be more frightening than the lack of them.
For now, however, Hassan only seemed filled with pleasure at seeing him.
A parlor decorated in pale blues lay to the left. Though three men—two in French naval uniforms, and another as simply dressed as Hassan—were standing around a card table with a large map spread between them, Hassan led him to a sitting room. More rolled letters lay atop a writing desk. A window looked over the tree-lined canal, the bare branches flocked with ice and snow. Hassan gestured to two armchairs flanking the open fireplace.
The counselor settled into the chair nearest the flames. “You’ll forgive me. I feel the cold to my bones here. Do you see the gray?” He lifted his chin, stroked his fingers through his curly black beard. “I grow old. Has it been ten years since I saw you last?”
“Not quite nine,” Archimedes said.
“Ah, yes. Yes.” A faint smile touched the man’s mouth. “I can still hear Temür’s rage echoing through the kasbah when word of the barge’s destruction came. Much has changed since that day. But not enough has changed.”
And with that single statement, the counselor’s reserve returned—but it wasn’t completely familiar. Weariness accompanied it now, the sort that Archimedes usually saw in soldiers who’d been at war for too long, and with no end to the fighting in sight.
“What would you change?”
“We have long been under the foot of the Horde, Wolfram, and Temür has sacrificed much to lift it. But now the heel is his.”
From rebel to dictator. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
But not completely surprised. A man with as much power as Temür would not give it up easily, no matter his intentions at the beginning.
The man nodded once, an understated gesture that said Archimedes’ sorrow was nothing to his. A deep sigh resonated from his chest. “You have always been a friend to the Horde rebels, Wolfram. I wonder now if you will be a friend to the rebels in Rabat.”
“I didn’t know there were rebels in Rabat.”
“A growing number, led by Kareem al-Amazigh.” He tilted his head toward the door, as if indicating the man Archimedes had seen in the parlor. “He inspires many of us and reminds our people of the old ways, but we are a people who have not fought for centuries. We need to light a fire beneath them—as was done in England, when the fall of the tower sparked the revolution and drove the Horde out.”
“But you want to drive Temür out,” Archimedes guessed.
“Yes. And if God wishes it, to put a new man in his place—to create a hero, as the Iron Duke became when he destroyed the tower in London.”
“For this, you want my help?” Archimedes grinned. “I do have the looks of a hero.”
“You have never been serious. It is fortunate that I know you, or I would believe you mock our struggle.”
“Never that.”
“Which is why I met with you alone. Kareem does not know your heart. Please consider that when you speak with him.” Hassan leaned forward, holding his hands to the fire. “You provided the Iron Duke with explosives.”
Was this the help that he wanted Archimedes to give? Shaking his head, Archimedes said, “I procured those through Temür. I can’t find more for you, not quickly.”
And his obligation to Yasmeen came first.
But Hassan made a sweeping motion, as if to return his response. “No, this is not what I hope for. We have a man to supply the weapons, but we do not have the money. This is why we turn to you.”
For money? Archimedes had to laugh. “My purse is light, old friend.”
“You misunderstand me. I know your life has moved away from smuggling. It is your new occupation that interests us. We will not plunder our own people, but there are treasures of value to the north, and they all belong to no one. Treasures like the da Vinci sketch you discovered.”
Archimedes’ heart gave a heavy thump. “Where did you hear of the sketch?”
“It is known that Temür possesses it.” A frown creased the counselor’s brow. “Did you not pay your debt to him?”
Did he? Christ. Did the man have the forgery or the original—or both?
He realized Hassan waited for an answer, and though it felt as if he were speaking after a blow to his stomach, he managed, “I did.”
The counselor nodded. “Then you see how such treasures might help us, though you are not Kareem’s first choice because of your former association with Temür. We’ve secured the services of another man, Vincent Ollivier, from the university in Martinique. Are you acquainted?”
He’d never heard of him. Archimedes shook his head.
“He has many maps, diaries. He has studied da Vinci’s movements during the Fifty-Years’ Siege of the Hapsburg Wall. He believes he can find the location of the clockwork army.”
For God’s sake. “He’s a fraud. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve—”
“Fraud or not, we are funding the expedition. I am certain that even if such a rare find eludes us, God willing, we might collect enough smaller items to pay our supplier. But Ollivier lacks practical experience, so I’ve persuaded Kareem that your participation is necessary . . . and that your loyalty isn’t misplaced.”
It wasn’t. His loyalty lay with Yasmeen, but this expedition might solve several of their problems. “Will you be aboard?”
“Yes, if God wills it. Kareem leaves tomorrow for the New World, hoping to win support and allies there. I will oversee the expedition.”
“Do you return to Rabat afterward?”
“That is my intention.”
“Will I be able to return with you?”
“Ah, now I see.” A chuckle resonated in the counselor’s chest. “Your debt is paid, but you wonder if you’ll be shackled the moment you step off the airship. I can promise you safe entry if God wishes you the same.”
Perfect. “I’ll want the same for my partner—and I’ll be going as Archimedes Fox. Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste is dead.”
“Of course. Are you still partnered with Bilson? I heard a rumor he was also dead, but I hoped it was not true.”
“It is. Zombies took him in Paris. The woman I’m partnered with now has ten years’ experience flying over Europe, however. There’s no question of her skill or trustworthiness.”
“If you say that, I believe you.” But doubt or worry entered the man’s eyes. “A woman?”
A step near the door prevented Archimedes from replying. Kareem al-Amazigh entered. Archimedes stood and took the measure of the future hero of Rabat. Tall and wiry, he gave the impression of strength without the added bulk of overindulgence. Soft brown eyes, a firm mouth, and a full beard suggested compassion and maturity—and a handsome face didn’t hurt his cause.
“Mr. Gunther-Baptiste.” Kareem smiled with warmth, but Archimedes could see the sharp scrutiny the man gave him, pausing briefly on his bruised jaw and rumpled clothing. “Did you win?”
“I was on my feet when I left.” No need to mention that Yasmeen had supported him. “In some fights, that’s as close to a win as a man can hope for.”
“True words, Mr. Gunther-Baptiste. I trust Hassan has relayed our needs to you?”
“He has. I need to confirm with my partner, but I’m confident we’ll be joining the expedition.”
“Excellent. We’ve secured the airship Ceres. If God wills it, she leaves tomorrow at noon.”
A pit formed in Archimedes’ stomach. With effort, he maintained his pleasant expression. “Ceres? Under Captain Guillouet?”
“You know the captain? That is good. It is always best not to begin important endeavors with surprises.” With a sweep of his hand, Kareem gestured for Archimedes to precede him to the parlor. “We searched for some time before finding an airship that didn’t include females on the crew. I believe that is one of the great tragedies the Horde has forced upon us all: our unmarried women pressed into labor, rather than protected and supported by their fathers and brothers.”
“A great tragedy,” Archimedes echoed gravely.
The resounding noise behind him might have been a groan.
Yasmeen woke, aware that she wasn’t alone in the room. Hopefully it was only Archimedes. Her knees hurt too much to relish a fight with anyone else.
Her eyes immediately adjusted to the dark. Archimedes sat slumped in the chair opposite the bed, wearing a linen shirt with tails pulled free of his lime breeches, legs extended and crossed at the ankles. Even relaxed, the muscles of his calves were strongly defined. A dusting of hair covered his skin, and his feet were heavily callused. When they’d met, the sun had burnished the hair on his head with streaks of gold, but winter had darkened it. The same shade roughened his jaw.
She wanted to rub her cheek against that dark stubble. To climb into his lap and feel his body hard against hers. He’d burned like a furnace. He’d probably keep her warmer than the bed, and as long as he was that, she wouldn’t care if he didn’t touch her again.
For a while, anyway. She liked to be touched, loved the slow curl of sensation over her skin that followed a hand smoothing over her stomach, the flex of fingers down her spine. She trusted very few men to do it, however—and now one of them was holding back while he fell in love with her.
Foolish man. No good could come of it. Sense told her to stop him. But she suspected that if she tried, Archimedes would only be encouraged. He wasn’t a man who took the easy path. No, he sought the more difficult ones.
Which meant there was nothing to be done. The only way to discourage him would be to make herself easy—and a woman didn’t come any easier than
she’d been last night.
Perhaps he heard her stifled laugh, or saw the gleam of her grin in the dark. His head lifted. “Are you awake?” he asked softly.
She came up onto her elbow. “Awake, and wondering why you aren’t in Iceland, trying to pry apart the frozen thighs of the virgin cults. They pose much more of a challenge than I do.”
“If all I wanted was to fuck, yes. But I’ve lusted before, and that’s not what I desire now.” He reached for the lamp, filled the room with a soft yellow glow. She watched as his gaze slid over her. She’d slept in one of his long shirts, and the untied neckline had slipped down her arm. Unbound for the night, her hair curled over her bare shoulder. He paused only briefly on her ears before meeting her eyes again. “I also want to be certain that I’m not confusing lust with love.”
Yasmeen had done that before. “Perhaps there’s no difference. Or perhaps you can only know if you’ve satisfied one, and the other remains.”
“Then I will soon be a very frustrated man.” He drew a deep breath. “Also, we are married.”
Yasmeen grinned. She hadn’t been that drunk last night. “Caught by the boardinghouse matron, were you?”
“I know where a sketch is.”
Her humor vanished. She jolted up to sitting. “What? Where?”
“With Temür Agha in Rabat. There is also a rumor that my debt is settled.”
Oh . . . oh, fuck. She did not care for money that much. Vengeance was another matter. “Is it the forgery?”
“I don’t know. I hope it is not. If Temür discovered that the debt was settled by a fake . . .” He drifted into a laugh, shaking his head.
Temür would be enraged. But it wouldn’t matter, because if he had the forgery Yasmeen would kill him. “We have to see it.”
Archimedes nodded. “To that end, we are to join an airship expedition that will eventually take us to Rabat, and my friend Hassan will help us past the trading gates.”
Ah, good. That would have been the most difficult part. Though the Horde-occupied territories traded with the New World, few merchants and officials were invited past the port gates and into the cities—and Rabat wasn’t easily approached from another direction like England, which was shielded from zombies by the surrounding water and often cloudy enough to fly an airship over, unseen. Yasmeen and Archimedes could have sneaked past Rabat’s heavily guarded gates, but it was far simpler to walk through.
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