Burning Up

by Nalini Singh

  Yasmeen sighed and sat back. "You can't take her with you, regardless. Give her enough money to stay here. Tell her to wait."

  Eben shook his head. "She'll run."

  He was certain of it. She'd been frightened out of her wits, desperate to leave London. Had someone hurt her? He looked toward the door, ready to charge down the hall and find out. Goddammit. Someone would pay.

  And he'd probably terrify her again. Jesus, her sweet little smile drove him out of his mind.

  "Did she kill someone?" Barker wondered.

  Eben took another long drink, glancing toward the door again. Maybe she had. Obviously not a lover and not for money, but he could name a hundred other reasons why a woman in London might resort to killing. And if she expected a police inspector to come knocking--or someone seeking revenge--it explained her desperation to leave.

  Someone the Blacksmith couldn't protect her against? Eben couldn't imagine it, but it didn't matter. He would protect her.

  Yasmeen yanked the bottle from his hand. "Eben. Think. You're sailing out tomorrow on an Ivory Market run. Will you risk having her on the ship?"

  Hell. Pushing his hands into his hair, he shook his head. Sailing south along the west coast of Africa guaranteed Vesuvius would be shot at, boarded, or forced to outrun an airship. The market itself seethed with men who'd eat Ivy alive--some literally. If Eben lost her there, he wouldn't find her again. He couldn't take that chance.

  "I'll change course," he decided. "I'll take her to Trahaearn's estate in Anglesey." The Iron Duke's Welsh holdings weren't as impregnable as those in London, but no matter what had frightened her, even Ivy would feel safe at such a place. No one crossed Trahaearn.

  "You can't change course." Yasmeen's disgust showed itself in a curl of her lip over sharp teeth. "If she must leave town, buy her a seat on a locomotive and tell her to wait for you in Wales."

  Eben shook his head. He wouldn't be satisfied unless he saw her settled in a safe location and persuaded to remain there. If he simply gave her money, she'd be gone--too afraid of him to stay. He needed at least a few days for Ivy to learn she had nothing to fear from him. If he changed course and took her to Wales on Vesuvius, he'd gain the time he needed.

  "I will only be delayed a few days," he said.

  Yasmeen's snarl deepened. "Which could easily become a week--or longer. Trahaearn's paid half up front. If you don't pick up the cargo on time, it'll go to another ship, and we'll lose the rest of our money."

  "I care fuck all about the money--"

  "Because you're a mad fool."

  Eben stared at her. She didn't back down. Yasmeen never would when gold was at stake. "I'll cover the loss, pay you the same as Trahaearn would have," he offered.

  "And Trahaearn will never hire me again. Will you pay for every loss?"

  He couldn't. His pockets were deep, but not that deep. And there might be someone else he needed to pay off first. Mechanical flesh didn't come cheap--and if Ivy still owed the Blacksmith, he'd send his collectors after her.

  In this fog, it'd take Eben twice as long to reach the smithy in the Narrow. Leaving now, he could return before Ivy awoke . . . if she ever managed to sleep. So he'd return before she got it into her head to run.

  Eben stood. "I won't let her go, Yasmeen."

  "Softhearted Eben." She sat back with a bitter hiss, her finger curled into claws. "You spitting idiot."

  So he was. Eben turned to Barker. "Watch the stairs and don't let her leave. I'll return before dawn."

  Somehow, he'd convince her to stay in Wales. And to wait for him.

  Lying in the cloud-soft bed, Ivy was staring up at the darkened ceiling when she heard the tap at the window. An unmistakably feminine figure was silhouetted against the thick yellow mist.

  Ivy sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Moving closer, she recognized the blue kerchief and the glint of gold hoops. Why would the woman who'd been in the parlor with Mad Machen be outside Ivy's window? And why had she climbed a ladder instead of simply knocking on the bedroom door?

  Curious, Ivy unlocked the window--and immediately saw that she'd been wrong. Not climbed up a ladder, but down. The woman stood on the bottom rung, her hands wrapped around the rope rails.

  An airship? They weren't allowed to fly this close to London. But as Ivy peered upward, she realized no one would see the ship. A few feet above the woman's head, the ladder disappeared into the fog.

  "I'll take you as far as Port Fallow," the woman said. "You won't come to harm on my ship."

  Startled, Ivy studied her face. Judging by the hardness of her green eyes, the offer to take Ivy to the notorious port city built on Amsterdam's ashes hadn't come from the kindness of her heart. And although Ivy sensed that this woman didn't often bother explaining herself, she had to ask, "Why?"

  "It serves me and my crew."

  Ivy glanced upward again. "The crew of what?"

  "Lady Corsair."

  Oh, blue. For a moment, Ivy felt faint. The woman hanging outside the window was Lady Corsair. She had another name, maybe, but everyone knew her by the airship she captained. This woman had a reputation for killing anyone who questioned her, was a mercenary who would do anything for money.

  Ivy didn't have any. "I can't pay you. I can only work."

  "I don't want your money or your labor. A debt is far more valuable than coin."

  And far more frightening when left unpaid. "What will I owe you?"

  Lady Corsair grinned, flashing teeth that seemed too sharp. "I'll decide when I need it."

  Ivy hesitated.

  The airship captain shrugged and began climbing. "Mad Machen has returned. You can take his offer, instead."

  Ivy's heart began to hammer. Turning her head, she strained to listen--and heard the heavy tread on the stairs. Oh, blue heavens. Mad Machen would take her if she remained here.

  She glanced toward the bed, and the sight of the rumpled linens spurred her into action. He was too near to take the time and gather her things. Ivy scrambled through the window, grabbing on to the ladder. Exerting almost no effort at all, she let her arms carry her up the rope, and vanished into silence and the fog.

  TWO

  Two Years Later . . .

  The jokes began as soon as Ivy ducked her head beneath the pianist's lacy pink skirts. Rolling over onto her back, she lay on the musician's raised wooden platform and looked up into the gears that formed the automaton's guts. Luckily, this wouldn't take long--just a broken tooth on the deadbeat escapement that timed the motion of the feet, and a worm gear out of alignment. She worked, trying to ignore the men doing their best to make the little town of Fool's Cove earn its name. By the time she'd repaired the escapement, every Hans, Stefan, and Jozef with two brain cells and a drink in his hand had joined in, offering tips for oiling a woman up--including Klaas, the tavern's owner.

  She should have quoted him a higher price.

  But they tired of it quickly enough. After a couple of minutes of tuning them out, she realized the tavern had gone quiet. Silent, even.

  She paused. With her fingers wrapped around a pendulum rod, she listened to the approaching tread of a single pair of boots, painfully aware of her legs sticking out from beneath pink lace. The skirts lifted, and Ivy found herself staring into cat-green eyes under a ruby kerchief.

  Lady Corsair said, "I've come to collect what you owe me, Ivy Blacksmith."

  The woman's smile sent a tremor through Ivy's legs. Run. But she only came up on her elbows and asked, "Wasn't repairing every piece of equipment on your airship payment enough?"

  The narrowing of Lady Corsair's eyes was her only answer.

  Alright. Lady Corsair's captain had never asked her to work; Ivy had simply needed to keep herself busy. "So I owe you the price of a passage from London to Port Fallow. I'll pay it now."

  It'd take every bit of Ivy's savings, but she'd rather settle this debt with coin. She sat up, aware of the grease on her fingers, her cheek.

  "I don't want your coin. W
e need you to build something for us."

  Ivy's stomach dropped. Building didn't worry her as much as the other part. "Us?"

  Lady Corsair straightened and stepped back, revealing the man behind her. Mad Machen--his face dark, eyes wild.

  By the fucking stars, no.

  Blood surged to her legs. Scuttling back, Ivy turned, got her boots under her and sprinted for the tavern kitchen. Past the stoves, she burst through the door and stumbled into a muddy yard full of white chickens. Feathers flew as they scrambled out of her path, squawking their alarm. She leapt over a gate, made it into the street.

  Lady Corsair came out of nowhere. Catching Ivy by the hair with both hands, the aviator whipped her around to a stop, then yanked Ivy back against her.

  Her voice was a terrifying purr in Ivy's ear. "You're fortunate I don't toss you to my men for that, blacksmith."

  Almost blinded by tears of frustration and pain, Ivy spat, "You're tossing me to him."

  "Two years ago, you cheated him out of a fare. As his friend, I'm only helping him claim what is rightfully his." Strong fingers tightened in Ivy's hair. "Look up."

  Ivy blinked away the tears, fighting whatever was working up from her chest--a scream or a sob, she didn't know. Half concealed by the low clouds, Lady Corsair floated above Ivy's shop, a long and shallow wooden ship tethered beneath an enormous white balloon. They'd come in under silent sail; her engines were off, the tail propellers still. A rope ladder had been lowered to Ivy's front door. They'd known exactly where to find her.

  "I see," she choked out.

  "Good. Now understand this: my aviators haven't had a good raid in months. You can keep fighting, and I'll let my crew run through this town instead of Port Fallow, which can handle them. So what say you, blacksmith?"

  Ivy closed her eyes, clenched her fists. She had arms powerful enough to rip this woman apart. Instinct warned her not to try. There was strong, and there was deadly--and she feared Lady Corsair had the edge on the latter.

  Her chest aching, she looked toward her shop again. "I have to gather my things."

  Without a word, Lady Corsair let her go. Ivy trudged forward, avoiding the curious eyes of the townspeople coming out to look. Several sped back into the safety of their homes the moment they glimpsed the woman following her.

  When they glimpsed the man, too. Though she couldn't make out the words, Ivy heard the rough anger in Mad Machen's voice as he questioned Lady Corsair. Felt his gaze boring into her back.

  How stupid to hope she might have been safe here on the Norwegian coast, in one of the settlements populated by the descendants of families from eastern Europe who'd fled from the Horde centuries ago--and more recently, from England--but she'd never thought Mad Machen would sail into Fool's Cove. He couldn't sail into Fool's Cove. The shallow water hid jagged towers of stone that ripped out the wooden bottoms of every deep-keeled boat. Ice locked the town in winter. In the spring, giant eels seethed in an electric, twisted mating dance, and in the fall, the herring spawned in the fjord that drained into the cove drew young megalodons who churned the waters in a season-long feeding frenzy. The only route into the town was by airship or the fjord; only a fool would sail in by ship.

  But he hadn't sailed. And the woman Ivy had assumed was his rival was his friend, instead.

  She stepped around the rope ladder, resisting the urge to grab each rail and rip it down. When she opened the door, the bell's jingle welcomed her into the shop. A blue curtain split the ground level room in half. The small window in front showcased the automata she'd built--the practical egg-crackers and handwashers, the fanciful singing birds and jumping frogs--and the dresses sewed by her shopmate, Netta. Seamstress and blacksmith, they both pulled in more coin with repairs than with sales off the shelf . . . but even the repair money was barely enough to keep food in their bellies.

  No thanks to bloody Mad Machen.

  Only last month, she'd treated an emaciated man who still bore the marks of a whip. She'd made him a new foot, and listened to how Mad Machen had attacked his merchant ship, forced the man onto his crew, used him until he couldn't walk anymore, then left him to die in a dinghy. Mad Machen . . . who'd been tearing up the coast of the North Sea, searching for the redheaded blacksmith from London who'd cheated him.

  The man had given her hair and guild tattoo a significant look. Though the work she'd done on his foot could have fed her for a year, she hadn't asked him to pay.

  It wasn't the first time she'd heard the story, received that look, and hadn't been paid in return. Mad Machen had a habit of dropping men into dinghies near the cove. For months now, Ivy had suspected he knew she was there, and his revenge had been keeping her frightened and waiting. She should have run then--but she simply hadn't wanted to run again.

  Black hair pulled into a bun at her nape, Netta came up to the front, and the friendly smile of greeting she wore warmed when she saw Ivy. "Back so early, and without a pint to show for it. That Klaas has a tighter fist than a sailor a year out to sea." She tsked, shaking her head, then moved over to the window. "We have a fish pie today, thanks from the widow Aughton. Now, look at all the busybodies standing about. What're they sticking their noses into today?"

  "Me." Ivy ran her hand through her hair, trying to think. "I don't know when I'll return, Netta."

  If she returned.

  "What are you going on about? I--" Netta froze, staring out the window. "That man, is he . . . ? Oh, Ivy--run. Run!"

  "I tried that," Ivy said, starting for the stairs. Every step was like twisting a screw through her chest. Downstairs, the bell chimed merrily as the door opened again. She didn't look back.

  Full of light, with a window overlooking the cove, her room appeared larger than it was. She crouched in front of the chest at the foot of her narrow bed, retrieving a small steel box locked with a rotating combination. She dialed in the sequence, and the box unfolded, clicking as it reshaped into a fat squatting man, his left and right eyes reading a one and a six. Sixteen coins. She pressed his hand down, and thin electrum deniers spit from the smiling mouth into her palm one at a time. When the eyes showed a zero and an eight, she flicked the hand up--leaving half for Netta to pay their rent, so that she might have a shop to return to.

  Someone began to climb the stairs--a heavy, uneven tread.

  Ivy hurried to her wardrobe. She had a real satchel this time, made by Netta from mismatched pieces of fabric. Ivy filled it with her few changes of clothing, then looked around. Two tattered books lay on the nightstand--children's primers that Netta had taught Ivy to read. Taking those was like admitting she wasn't coming back. She left them where they were.

  "Bring that with you."

  Mad Machen's gruff voice came from behind her. Slowly, Ivy turned, her gaze sweeping up from the floor--stopping at his legs. From just above the right knee on down, he no longer filled out his trouser leg and boot. A prosthetic. One he'd had long enough that he didn't need a stabilizing cane, but he wouldn't be running after her soon, if ever.

  She met his eyes. Dark and somber, they watched her face. His hair was longer, shaggier, and lightened by the summer sun. His cheeks were leaner, browner, and a new white scar cut cleanly through his flesh from his temple to his jaw.

  Sometime in the past two years, he'd been through hell. And because she couldn't take pleasure in it, she turned away so that she wouldn't feel compassion.

  By some miracle, her voice was steady. "Bring what with me?"

  "The dress."

  It hung on the wardrobe door. Of pale blue satin, designed to gather beneath her breasts and cascade to the floor, the gown was a New Year's gift from Netta. A month ago, Ivy had attended one of the widow Aughton's socials wearing it with borrowed slippers, gloves over her gray arms, and ribbons in her hair. Only a few men had been brave enough to dance with her. They'd heard the stories about Mad Machen, too.

  Her hands shook as she lifted the dress from the hook. That terrified her. The one thing she'd always been able to depend o
n was the steadiness of her hands.

  When she turned, he was beside her bed, bending to slide his fingers over the rough woolen blanket. Anger suddenly rose up, stripping the thread of her fear.

  The gown crumpled in her fists. "Why not here?"

  His gaze flew to hers.

  "Use me on the bed," she told him. "Take what you feel you're owed. Then leave me here, and let me continue as I was."

  His brows lowered, and he slowly straightened. After an endless second in which he seemed to be holding on to his control, he said, "Our agreement was that you'd be in my bed."

  "For passage. I didn't board your ship. I owe you nothing."

  "But to pay your debt to Yasmeen, you have to board Vesuvius ." He took a step toward her. "Bring the dress, Ivy."

  She'd have ripped it. But Netta had spent hours sewing in secret . . . and Ivy loved the blasted thing. She shoved the gown into her satchel and turned for the stairs. She marched down and threw her arms around a weeping Netta.

  "I left money. It's not much."

  "I'll get by." Netta's strong arms squeezed her tight. "Take care, Ivy. And come back. Please."

  Nodding, Ivy drew away. She heard Mad Machen on the stairs--slow, careful. With her chin high, Ivy swept past Lady Corsair, through the door, and to the rope ladder.

  And because it was the last time she could put distance between her and Mad Machen, Ivy climbed to her fate as fast as she could.

  Lady Corsair's sails unfurled before Eben was halfway up the ladder. Within a minute, he was clinging to the swaying ropes, staring down into the shallow cove where small megalodons swam between jagged rocks, their dorsal fins cutting the surface. Yasmeen was furious with him, obviously.

  His fury was directed right back. God damn her for keeping Ivy's location from him. For not telling him who the Blacksmith had sent them to find until after they'd stepped into that tavern.

  And with every awkward step up the ladder, he thanked God that Ivy hadn't been on Vesuvius when she'd sailed from London two years ago--but he didn't need the sharks circling below as a reminder.

  A gust buffeted him against the wooden hull. The impact rattled his teeth and vibrated painfully through his steel leg, into his thigh bone. Jaw clenched, he pulled himself up another rung and swung over the gunwale onto the deck. Most of the crew was at the halyards, hauling at the lines that drew the sails out along the horizontal spars, bringing the triangular canvas forward to catch more air. Yasmeen watched them from the quarterdeck.