When Lady Corsair’s long shadow passed over the flat, sandy shoreline and the first rows of houses overlooking the sea, Yasmeen ordered the engines cut. Their huffing and vibrations gave way to the flap of the airship’s unfurling sails and the cawing protests of the seabirds whose flight paths had been interrupted by the balloon. Below, the narrow cobblestone streets lay almost empty. A steamcart puttered along beside an ass-drawn wagon loaded with wooden barrels, but most of the good people of Fladstrand scrambled back to their homes as soon as they spotted Lady Corsair in the skies above them—hiding behind locked doors and shuttered windows, hoping that whatever business Yasmeen had wouldn’t involve them.
They were in luck. Today, Yasmeen only sought one woman: Zenobia Fox, author of several popular stories that Yasmeen had read to pieces, and sister to a charming antiquities salvager whose adventures Zenobia based her stories on . . . a man that Yasmeen had recently killed.
Yasmeen had also killed their father and taken over his airship, renaming her Lady Corsair. That had happened some time ago, however, and no one would consider Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste charming, including his daughter. Yasmeen had seen Zenobia Fox once before, though the girl had been called Geraldine Gunther-Baptiste then. As one of the mercenary crew aboard Gunther-Baptiste’s skyrunner, Yasmeen had watched an awkward girl with mousy-brown braids wave farewell to her father from the docks. Zenobia had been standing next to her pale and worn-looking mother.
Neither she nor her mother had appeared sorry to see him go.
Would Zenobia be sorry that her brother was dead? Yasmeen didn’t know, but it promised to be an entertaining encounter. She hadn’t looked forward to meeting someone this much since Archimedes Fox had first boarded Lady Corsair—and before she’d learned that he was really Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste, not the writer she’d been led to believe he was. Hopefully, her acquaintance with his sister wouldn’t end the same way, with Yasmeen throwing Zenobia to a mob of zombies.
A familiar grunt came from Yasmeen’s left. Lady Corsair’s quartermaster stood at the port rail, consulting a hand-drawn map before casting a derisive look over the town.
Yasmeen tucked her scarf beneath her chin so the heavy wool wouldn’t muffle her voice. “Is there a problem with the directions, Monsieur Rousseau?”
To avoid the ridiculousness of asking around town for Zenobia’s location—and giving someone a chance to warn the woman that a mercenary was coming for her—Yasmeen had overpaid a Fladstrander fisherman for the information, instead.
If he’d misdirected them, Yasmeen wouldn’t hesitate to ask for her money back.
Rousseau pushed his striped scarf away from his mouth, exposing his short black beard. With gloved hands, he gestured to the rows of houses, each one identical to the next in all but color. “Only that they are exactly the same, captain. But it is not a problem. It is simply an irritant.”
Yasmeen nodded. She didn’t doubt Rousseau could find the house. Though hopeless with a sword or gun, her quartermaster could interpret the most rudimentary of maps as if they’d been drawn by skilled cartographers. That ability, combined with his expressive grunts and eyebrows that could wordlessly discipline or praise the aviators—and a booming voice for when nothing but words would do—made him the most valuable member of Yasmeen’s crew. A significant number of jobs that Yasmeen took in Europe required Lady Corsair to navigate through half-remembered terrain and landmarks. Historical maps of the continent were easy to come by, but matching their details to the overgrown ruins that existed now demanded another skill entirely—that of reading the story of the Horde’s centuries-long occupation.
Though not ruins, Fladstrand’s identical rows of houses told another tale, one that Yasmeen had seen repeated all along the Scandinavian coastlines.
In one of her adventures, Zenobia Fox had written that the worth of any society could be judged by measuring the length of time it took for dissenters to go from the street to the noose. Zenobia might have based that statement on the history of her adopted Danish home; a few centuries ago, that time hadn’t been long at all. Soon after the Horde’s war machines had broken through the Hapsburg wall, the zombie infection had outpaced their armies, and the steady trickle of refugees from eastern Europe had opened into a flood. Those who had the means bought passage aboard a ship to the New World, but those without money or connections migrated north, pushing farther and farther up the Jutland Peninsula until they crowded the northern tip. Some fled across the sea to Norway and Sweden, while others bargained for passage to the Danish islands. Those refugees who were left built rows of shacks, and waited for the Horde and the zombies to come.
Neither had. The Horde hadn’t pressed farther north than the Limfjord, a shallow sound that cut across the tip of Jutland, separating it from the rest of the peninsula and creating an island of the area. The same stretch of water stopped most of the zombies; walls built near the sound stopped the rest. And although poverty and unrest had plagued the crowded refugees, and the noose had seen frequent use, the region slowly recovered. Rows of shacks became rows of houses. Now quiet and stable, many of the settlements attracted families from England, recently freed from Horde occupation, and from the New World. Zenobia Fox and her brother had made up one of those families.
“We are coming over her home now, captain.” Rousseau’s announcement emerged in frozen puffs. “How long do you intend to visit with her?”
How long would it take to say that Archimedes had discovered a valuable artifact before Yasmeen had killed him, and then pay the woman off? With luck, Zenobia Fox would send Yasmeen on her way in a fit of self-righteous fury—though it might be more entertaining if she tried to send Yasmeen off with a gun. In both scenarios, Yasmeen would hold on to all of the money, which suited her perfectly.
“Not long,” she predicted. “Lower the ladder.”
Rousseau relayed the order, and within moments, the crew unrolled the rope ladder over Lady Corsair’s side. Yasmeen glanced down. Zenobia’s orange, three-level home sat between two identical houses painted a pale yellow. Unlike many of the houses in Fladstrand, the levels hadn’t been split into three separate flats. The slate roof was in good repair, the trim around the windows fresh. Lace curtains prevented Yasmeen from looking into the rooms. Wrought-iron flower boxes filled with frosted-over soil projected from beneath each windowsill.
Large and well tended, the house provided ample room for one woman. Yasmeen supposed that much space was the best someone could hope for when living in a town—but she couldn’t have tolerated being anchored to one place. Why would Zenobia Fox? She had based her adventures on her brother’s travels, but why not travel herself? Yasmeen couldn’t understand it. Perhaps money had been a factor—although by the look of her home, Zenobia didn’t lack funds.
No matter. After Yasmeen paid her off, Zenobia wouldn’t need to base her stories on Archimedes’s adventures. She could go as she pleased—or not—and it wouldn’t be any concern of Yasmeen’s.
As this was a social visit, she’d removed the guns usually tucked into her wide crimson belt. At the beginning of the month, she’d traded her short aviator’s jacket for a long winter overcoat, and the two pistols concealed in her deep pockets provided enough protection, backed up by the daggers tucked into the tops of her boots, easily reachable at mid-thigh. She checked her hair, making certain that her blue kerchief covered the tips of her tufted ears. If necessary, she could use her braids to do the same, but the kerchief was more distinctive. There would be no doubt exactly who had dropped in on Zenobia Fox today.
The ladder swayed when Yasmeen hopped over the rail and let the first rung catch her weight. Normally she’d have slid down quickly and landed with an acrobatic flourish, but her woolen gloves didn’t slide over the rope well—and Yasmeen didn’t know how long she would be waiting on the doorstep. She wouldn’t risk cold, stiff fingers that made drawing a knife or pulling a trigger more difficult, not for the sake of a flip or two.
The neighbors might hav
e appreciated it, though. All along the street, lace curtains twitched. When Yasmeen pounded the brass knocker on Zenobia’s front door, many became bold enough to show their faces at the windows—probably thanking the heavens that she hadn’t knocked at their doors.
No one peeked through the curtains at Zenobia’s house. The door simply opened, revealing a pretty blond woman in a pale blue dress. Though a rope ladder swung behind Yasmeen and a skyrunner hovered over the street, the woman didn’t glance up.
A dull-witted maid, Yasmeen guessed. Or a poor, dull-witted relation. She knew very little about current fashion, but even she could see that although the dress was constructed of good materials and sewn well, the garment sagged in the bodice and the hem piled on the floor.
She must have recognized Yasmeen as a foreigner, however. A thick Germanic accent gutted her French, the common trader’s language. “May I help you?”
“I need to speak with Miss Zenobia Fox.” Yasmeen smoothed the Arabic from her own accent, hoping to avoid an absurd comedy of misunderstandings on the doorstep. “Is she at home?”
The woman’s eyebrows lifted in a regal arch. “I am she.”
This wasn’t a maid? How unexpected. Despite the large house and obvious money, Zenobia Fox opened her own door?
Yasmeen liked surprises; they made everything so much more interesting. She’d never have guessed that the awkward girl with mousy-brown braids would have bloomed into this delicate blond thing.
She’d never have guessed that her first impression of the woman who penned clever and exciting tales would be “dull-witted.”
Archimedes certainly hadn’t been. Quick with a laugh or clever response, he’d perfectly fit Yasmeen’s image of Archimedes Fox, Adventurer. She could see nothing of Archimedes in this woman—not in the soft shape of her face or the blue of her eyes, and certainly not in her manner. Zenobia had either grown to resemble her mother, or her mother had dallied while Emmerich had been away.
“I am Lady Corsair’s captain.” Kerchief over the hair, indecently snug trousers, a skyrunner that had once belonged to her father floating over her house—was this woman completely blind? “Your brother recently traveled on my airship.”
“Yes, I know. How can I help you?”
How can I help you? Disbelieving, Yasmeen stared at the woman. Could an aviator’s daughter be this sheltered? What else could it mean when the captain of a vessel appeared on her doorstep? Every time that Yasmeen had knocked on a door belonging to one of her crew members’ families, the understanding had been immediate. Sometimes it had been accompanied by denial, grief, or anger—but they all knew what it meant when she arrived.
Perhaps because Archimedes had been a passenger rather than her crew, Zenobia didn’t expect it. But the woman should have made the connection by now.
“Shall we go inside?” Yasmeen suggested. “I’m afraid I have unfortunate news regarding your brother.”
The “unfortunate news” must have clued her in. Zenobia blinked, her hand flying to her chest. “Archimedes?”
At a time like this, she called him Archimedes—not Wolfram, the name she’d have known him by for most of her life? Either they’d completely adopted their new identities, or this was an act.
If it was an act, this encounter was already turning out better than Yasmeen had anticipated. There was a small chance Archimedes Fox might be alive—which wouldn’t displease Yasmeen at all. She didn’t regret tossing him over the side of her ship, because he’d left her little choice. But when Yasmeen killed a man, she preferred to do it for reasons other than his stupidity.
If he had survived, perhaps he’d already contacted his sister. That might account for her strange behavior.
Yasmeen couldn’t be certain, however, until Zenobia said more. “Perhaps we can speak inside, Miss Fox.”
“Yes, of course.”
Zenobia led the way into a parlor, her too-long skirts dragging on the wooden floor. A writing desk sat by the window, stacked with papers. No ink stained Zenobia’s fingers. Obviously, she hadn’t been busy writing the next Archimedes Fox adventure.
A shelf over the fireplace held several baubles, some worn by age, others encrusted with dirt—a silver snuffbox, a lady’s miniature portrait, a gold tooth. All items that Archimedes had collected during his salvaging runs in Europe, Yasmeen realized. All items that he’d picked from the ruins, but hadn’t sold. Why keep these?
Her gaze returned to the lady in the miniature. Soft brown hair, warm eyes, a plain dress. The description seemed familiar, though Yasmeen knew she hadn’t seen this portrait before. No, it was a description from Archimedes Fox and the Specter of Notre Dame. In the story, Archimedes Fox had found a similar miniature clutched in a skeleton’s fingers, and the mystery surrounding the woman’s identity had led the adventurer to a treasure hidden beneath the ruined cathedral.
How odd that she’d never realized that fictional miniature had a real-life counterpart. That she’d never imagined him digging it out of the muck somewhere and bringing it to his sister. That he’d once held it, as she did now.
The stupid man. She hoped he wasn’t dead.
Yasmeen lied often, and so she didn’t care that he’d lied about his identity when he’d arranged for passage on her airship. Had she not discovered who he was, she’d have invited him to her bed—and he’d have come, would have submitted to her demands, because he’d wanted her.
But she could never offer an invitation after he’d made a fool of her in front of her crew.
It didn’t matter that he’d lied. It did matter that she’d allowed Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste’s son aboard her airship without knowing who he really was. It didn’t matter that his son hadn’t been seeking revenge.
But Archimedes could have been seeking revenge, and her crew knew it. A threat had sneaked onto Lady Corsair right beneath her nose.
She couldn’t forgive him for that. Too often, she led her crew into dangerous territory, and they would only be loyal to a strong captain. A captain they could trust. She’d invested years making certain that her crew could trust her, and rewarded their loyalty with scads of money.
There wasn’t enough money in the world to convince a crew to follow a fool, and Archimedes Fox had come close to turning her into one. She’d only been saved because he’d openly thanked her for killing his father, negating his potential threat. He’d become a joke, instead.
And later, when he had threatened her in front of the crew, she’d gotten rid of him . . . maybe.
Yasmeen turned to Zenobia, who stood quietly in the center of the parlor, tears trailing over her pink cheeks.
“So Archimedes . . . is dead?” she whispered.
Funny how that terrible accent came and went. “Dead,” Yasmeen echoed. “Unfortunate, as I said. He was so very handsome.”
“Oh, my brother!” Zenobia buried her face in her hands.
Yasmeen let her sob for a minute. “Do you want to know how he died?”
Zenobia lifted her head. She took a second to compose herself, sniffling into a lace handkerchief, her blue eyes bright with more tears. “Well, yes, I suppose—”
“I killed him. I dropped him from my airship into a pack of flesh-eating zombies.”
The other woman had nothing to say to that. She stared at Yasmeen, her fingers twisting in the handkerchief.
“He tried to take control of my ship. You understand.” Yasmeen flopped onto a sofa and hooked her leg over the arm. Zenobia’s face reddened and she averted her gaze. Not accustomed to seeing a woman in trousers, apparently. “He hasn’t come around for a visit, has he?”
“A visit?” Her head came back around, eyes wide. “But—”
“I tossed him into a canal. Venice is still full of them, did you know?”
Zenobia shook her head.
“Well, some are more swamp than canal, but they are still there—and zombies don’t go into the water. We both know that Archimedes has escaped more dire situations than that, at least according to h
is adventures. You’ve read your brother’s stories, Miss Fox, haven’t you?”
“Of . . . course.”
“He mentions the canals in Archimedes Fox and the Mermaid of Venice.”
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.”
There was no Mermaid of Venice adventure, yet the woman who’d supposedly written it didn’t even realize she’d been caught in her lie. Pitiful.
But the question remained: Did that mean Zenobia wasn’t the author after all, or was this not Zenobia?
Yasmeen suspected the latter.
“So he might be alive?” Zenobia ventured.
“He still had his equipment and plenty of weapons. But if he hasn’t contacted you after a month now . . . he must be dead, I’m sorry to say.” Yasmeen meant it, but she wasn’t sorry for the next. “And so that’s the second man in your family I’ve killed.”
Surprise and dismay flashed across her expression. “Yes, of course. My . . .”
She trailed off into a sob. Oh, that was good cover.
“Father.” Yasmeen helped her along.
“Yes, my father. After he . . . did something terrible, too.”
That was good, too. Smart not to suggest that the armed woman sitting in the room had been at fault.
Obviously, this woman had no idea whom she’d targeted by taking Zenobia Fox’s place. If asked, she’d probably say that her father’s surname had been Fox, as well. She wouldn’t know that Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste had once tried to roast a mutineer alive. Yasmeen hadn’t had any love for the mutineer—but she’d shot him in the head anyway, to put him out of his misery. She’d shot Gunther-Baptiste when he’d ordered the other mercenaries to put her on the roasting spit in the mutineer’s place. When Yasmeen realized that she’d attained a beauty of an airship in the process, she’d shot every other crew member who tried to take it from her.
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