The captain laughed and leaned across the table to the Maker. “She was ready. Some things even the Maker doesn’t know!”
“What?” the Maker snapped, his arms around Meggie and Maude. “You planned this?”
The captain nodded. “Well, not the loss of my hat, but, yes.” He laughed.
Jordan heard and she hated even more.
“You don’t need to trigger with hate,” Anil whispered, slowly stepping close to Jordan and the wheel. “You only need to connect with the weather through strong emotion to call the storm. Love your power. Let it sing out of you. Sing it out. Go, Draw Down.”
“No,” she whispered her jaw set as she stared straight ahead.
“Draw Down,” he said again, his eyes meeting hers. “This is not worth killing yourself over. Little is.” He moved to pry her fingers off the wheel but there was a flash of blinding white light and Jordan was on fire, licked by lightning from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
Every one of her senses was on fire, lightning screamed in her ears, her fingers fountained sparks and her vision flared, everything glaring white before going black, and Jordan fell to the deck, destroyed.
Chapter Thirteen
When the fight begins within himself,
A man’s worth something.
—ROBERT BROWNING
Bangor
Past the tent where pillows were strewn across foreign-looking carpets Rowen went, only slowing to take in the sight of the men reclining by low tables, pressing their lips to a narrow hose they passed from one to the other and exhaling the smoke that came from inside a strange metal-and-glass device. Unlike the Below sprawling at the feet of the Hill, there were no signs to better educate the wayward pirate on his first time into the caverns carved into the heart of Bangor. But truly no signs were needed.
Rowen had spent enough time in the taverns and darker bits of one of America’s biggest cities to know an opium den when he saw one. The pipes themselves were not the danger, as he’d been told; it was what was put inside the pipes for smoking. Still, Rowen steered clear, preferring the one poison he personally understood—alcohol.
But at the moment he had no interest in that. He followed his nose, and found meat. Pork, painted with coconut milk, roasted on a spit and still sizzling and stuck on a stake. He paid for the thing and sat down. He had barely managed to down three bites when he heard the man speak up.
“Hey, I’ve seen that face before…” someone said, loudly enough that everyone in the modest (and temporarily erected) establishment turned to look at the man, and more importantly, at Rowen.
He stopped chewing; the meat went dry in his mouth. He tried to swallow, but it wedged in his throat and he coughed, recalling the fact that he was still a wanted man. Yes, within a nest of other wanted men and even women, surely, but—how did these things work themselves out? Did the one with the highest ransom on his head assume the greatest risk?
Worried he was about to find out exactly what happened in such situations—firsthand—he choked.
“Aye, I seen him, too!” another proclaimed.
Rowen managed to swallow the bite of food and turned about, looking as if to see who they might possibly mean. He set the stake on his plate and calmly wiped off his hands. He might need to firmly grasp his sword’s handle in a moment and grease would do him no good.
“And me!” a third voice shouted.
So it would be a bit of a competition. He turned back, giving them his very best you can’t possibly mean me look.
“I seen him first!”
Hands shot out and grabbed him, hammy fingers digging into his biceps and securing him.
An argument broke out. Who saw the wanted man first, who should claim custody, who should he be turned in to (as it seemed three separate entities were now in pursuit) and should the money be split between two or three of the finders? The restauranteur stepped in and suggested he be granted a finder’s fee as it was at his fine establishment that Rowen was in fact found.
The arguing died away and Rowen heard the familiar sound of Evie’s boot steps. “Just what is going on,” Elizabeth Victoria, using a voice Rowen had barely heard before—a voice that spoke of power—asked. She slowly tugged off her gloves, folded them together, and hung them through her belt. She cocked her stance, crossed her arms, every bit of her body language warning them that here stood a woman not to be trifled with. “This is my crew man. He is signed up aboard the airship Tempest in service to the Killpoint fleet. What business do any of you claim to have with him?”
The first claimant stepped forward, short and nearly as wide as he was tall. He dug into the pouch hanging at his side and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Though it was bent and folded and appeared nearly gnawed at the edges, when he unfolded it and pressed it flat on the nearest table, Rowen saw it was the same poster that he and Jonathan had seen as they rode hard for Holgate.
Captain Elizabeth Victoria glanced from the produced paper to Rowen and back, her jaw set, her eyes hard. “It does bear a striking resemblance.”
He purpled at the statement, his fingers rolling into fists as he motioned toward the offensive image with his chin. “That looks nothing like me,” he snarled.
His captain blinked rapidly at that particular complaint. “He makes a good point. It bears little resemblance to the man we see before us now—”
“Rowen Burchette!”
Rowen’s head snapped around in the direction of the call and Evie groaned.
“But then there’s that…”
The caller grinned and stepped forward with a wanted poster of a different variety. “I would say that recognition of such an uncommon name as his should count as proof.” He held up the poster. “As he responded definitely to me, I claim him as mine.”
“You cannot claim him like some lost dog,” Evie protested. “He is already mine.” But she eyed the posters with quiet curiosity. No, Rowen realized, she eyed a very specific part of the posters—the reward.
“As I have said, he is a member of my crew.”
“The crew of an airship that is going nowhere near either of these ports,” one of the men pointed out, shaking the poster again. “If you wish to retain him so you take the reward, you will have to either hold him for a long enough period that you risk them no longer wanting him or you will need to diverge from your standard path and take on additional costs and risks. Is keeping him in your care worth the loss of your contracts?”
“Well, I am the one who brought him here after all,” she stated simply. “I should at least receive a delivery fee.” She shrugged and said to Rowen, “I knew you were quite wanted, but I did not imagine even men wanted you … pretty though you are … What’s the top ransom, boys? Show me all the wanted posters.”
Quietly the crowd tightened in, peppered heavily with crew members from the Tempest.
The ransoms were quite impressive “—and not a one does your face true justice … how sad,” Elizabeth Victoria remarked. “A captain could refit an entire ship with that ransom. Or purchase the guts of a thermoacoustic engine…”
“Get me out of here, Evie,” Rowen whispered.
“And just why should me and my men fight all of our friends to keep you safe? Seems more headache than it’s worth.” Still, she unsnapped the frog holding her sword’s scabbard and let the scabbard drop into her left hand.
Ginger Jack slipped up beside her, the cage of foxes slung across his back. He rubbed his hands together, weighing their would-be opponents.
“Why save me and take me with you? Because I have connections. I can help you unify the rebel cause in Philadelphia.”
She laughed and the crowd rippled with the sound as well. “You think the rebel cause can unite? That there is a single leader to this mess calling for change?” She shook her head. “There is no true leader. No unifying chapter organizing any of us.”
“Then become one,” Rowen said, challenging her with his eyes. “Be the leader they need. Be the change you want to s
ee. Get me out of here safely and you’ll have the things you need to unite the rebels.”
She pressed her lips together, a fine line forming between her eyebrows as she considered.
“And if I do not prove my value in short order,” he said, “turn me in to the person offering the greatest ransom.”
She sighed. “You have a way about you, Rowen Burchette,” she admitted. “Boys,” she shouted, “let’s get him to the ship!” She winked at him as she kicked aside the men holding his arms and drew her sword. “Besides,” she mused, “what crew doesn’t want to talk about their last fight while they sit in the comfort of their airship drinking? At least until the vomiting ensues!”
Rowen drew his sword, standing with Evie and Jack. The wayward crew of the Tempest gathered, slung their belongings over their shoulders, and leaped into the crowd.
Swords clanked against each other and Rowen swung and slashed at his opponents, keeping his back toward his friends, guarding theirs as they guarded his. Out of the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of Jack and Evie taking out entire groups of men as they worked together, him knocking men to her with his fists where she kicked them onto their rumps or knocked them out with a strike from her sword’s pommel or the scabbard she wielded like a club. The rest of the men played cleanup crew to the team of captain and engineer and, groaning with effort to keep his attackers at bay, Rowen grinned, knowing he had been right about the Tempest’s crew.
Together they fought their way out of the Hill King’s Cavern, back to back, with Fennec foxes included. Boarding, Elizabeth Victoria called a storm, and the Tempest tore away from the dock, snapping nets and cables alike.
Aboard the Artemesia
She woke in her room, her body stinging like a winding trail of fire sprouted on her hip, then wound around her back and neck and onto her left cheek. Her ears rang from the blast. She opened her eyes slowly, her vision hazy and uncertain. She worked breath into her mouth and down her throat, feeling it burn its way into her lungs.
She coughed.
The noise echoed in her ears.
Parched, her tongue rattled against split lips. She moaned, aching, but she rolled far enough out of bed that she could grab the water and drink. She took down her fill, emptying the pitcher. Her belly tight with water, still she wanted more.
She rolled out of bed and went to the door, pounding on it and calling for Jeremiah.
He appeared with fresh water, his eyes never connecting with hers but staying stuck to her stinging cheek.
“I’ve never seen one quite like that,” he whispered.
“One?” Her fingers flew to her cheek and she flinched away from her own touch. “One what?” she asked.
“Lightning’s Kiss. That’s—” His hand stretched out, his finger nearly touching her cheek. “That’s what that mark is.”
“A mark?”
“A scar.”
“Scar?” Her voice rose and she forced her fingers to touch it—to brush lightly across the raised surface. “It hurts…”
“Here,” Jeremiah said, “I have something that should help. Wait a moment.” He disappeared out her door and was back quickly, holding a small jar. “It’s an anything salve.”
“An anything salve?”
“Good for anything,” he explained. “Rub a little on and you’ll be right as rain.” He stiffened and she looked at him. Not many used that phrase—her family frowned on repeating it as much as on cursing. Some things were simply not said if you were of her rank.
Were of rank.
“Right as rain,” she agreed in a whisper, accepting the salve. “Thank you.”
His gaze trailed down her neck and shoulder and he looked away. She would have sworn he blushed if his skin tone hadn’t already been so dark. “You had better look yourself over thoroughly,” he suggested. “I brought you this…” He handed her a mirror. It wasn’t large or tremendously beautiful and it certainly wasn’t as grand as the ones that were once in her bedroom on the Hill, but she hadn’t had a true mirror since she’d been dragged out of her seventeenth birthday party.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
He bowed and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
A scar? Trembling, Jordan raised the mirror to inspect her face. Pink and angry-looking, something patterned like a snowflake rose from her skin in tiny blisters. She gasped, lowering the mirror.
Her father had made it clear the only two things she had to her advantage were her rank and her beauty.
Now both were gone.
She sat down hard on the edge of her bed, letting the tears flow. She was marred—inside and out. When she had finished sobbing, she raised the mirror again, determined to see the full damage of Lightning’s Kiss. Blinking rapidly, she looked, seeing how it spiraled down her neck, and when she slipped out of her dress she saw it continued, twisting across her shoulder and back to end on the front of one hip—a long rose-colored cane dotted with something that was part exploding fireworks and part drifting snow.
Experimentally she dabbed salve on the burn on her face. The pain eased and she smeared the salve everywhere she could. There were some places she could not reach—some places destined to hurt—but by the time she finished, she felt physically better.
She didn’t hear him walk through the door.
“Look at that,” Captain Kerdin said.
Jordan jumped, grabbing her dress to hide herself in the folds of fabric, but he tore it out of her hands.
“I have never seen so much scarring on anyone but a field slave,” he muttered. “Who would ever want you now, scarred as you are? Not me. Not now at least.”
He left her, untouched, and strangely—crying anew.
Aboard the Tempest
In the heart of the Tempest Evie was making plans. “Take the foxes,” she said, pointing to Toddy. “Give them to Cookie. Tell her they aren’t meat, but they can be used to turn meat on a wheel—like a proper household would use a turnspit—if she’s clever. Unfortunately no one gets a free ride here. You’d best make good on your promises, Burchette,” Evie muttered as she headed for the horn and flywheel.
“I will,” he promised, “I will.”
She spoke into the horn. “Direct line the Wandering Wallace,” she said, tapping her foot as she waited for someone on the device’s other end to do … something. Rowen had never bothered to wonder about the mechanics of such things; one merely lifted the one part, set the wheel to spinning, watched for the crystal to light, and spoke into the horn. Someone else made it work.
Evie growled. “I am not certain,” she said, “just make it happen. Aye, you’re a modern miracle worker.” She nodded as if the person she spoke to could see her as well. “We left our designated rendezvous port early,” Evie snapped into the horn. She slid her gaze to where Rowen sat, slouched against the ship’s wall, fingers woven into his hair. “There was some unexpected action. Aye. I have them, but we still require your stock to run the entire crew. Aye. Your next port? You’re in our path. We will intercept and take you and yours aboard.”
She nodded again and yanked the flywheel to a stop. She counted to three, moving her lips as she did, and then spun the wheel again. The stormcell blinked and she said, “Adjust course to intercept the Artemesia.”
Rowen’s head snapped up at the statement and he jumped to his feet. “The Artemesia?”
“Aye.” She set the horn back in its place on the wall. “It appears Fate is allowing you to have your way after all. Let us all just hope Fate feels kind in letting you get what you wished for.”
He grinned.
She shook her head. “Sometimes, love,” she muttered, “what we get is exactly what we wished, but not what we really wanted. Are you ready for that possibility?”
“I am ready to see Jordan. That much I know.”
She nodded. “Then, while we wait, start to contact these friends of yours. We have many things to make this little venture a success, but we will need money
. Get us that and I won’t need to seek creative means to get it for us.” She tossed one wanted poster at him.
The sum offered at its bottom made Rowen’s eyebrows rise. A small fortune—perhaps even enough to finance a band of rebels. Rowen looked at the hardened and lean men around him, each a specialist in his own specific field.
There was Ginger Jack, ship’s engineer; Toddy, who knew the ins and outs of the Tempest like few others; Bertram, who had used a plate and tankard to take down five rival pirates; Sam, who specialized in munitions; and … the list went on.
They were quick, they were efficient, they were fighters.
They might be all he needed to get the money.
He read the poster again.
And, oddly, perfectly legally.
Aboard the Artemesia
The lightning had changed every bit of her. Long sections of her hair were frayed, ends split, curled, and fragile. Running her fingers through her once lovely dark mane blackened her fingers, chunks of hair falling free between them. Jeremiah again came when she called, and when she actually asked for something other than water, he simply asked, “Do you need anything else?”
She shook her head. What she needed most he could not provide. He locked her door as tightly as the captain did. She hadn’t asked him to do more than he normally did.
Other than this one, small thing.
She looked at the scissors in her hand. Good, strong, sturdy, and most importantly, sharp. They were exactly what she needed at the moment.
She pulled free of her dress and set it aside. Kneeling by the window so she could watch the burst and burn of lightning as it lived and died in the dark nest of stormclouds, she reached up, grabbed her hair, and cut huge chunks of it off, letting it drop around her like it was nothing. She hacked off section after section and with each cut she imagined she was cutting away the last bits of who she once was.
The job done, she ran her fingers through her hair, letting it stand. She crawled into her bed, pulled the covers up tight, and waited for sleep to steal away her senses.
Aboard the Artemesia
Stormbringer Page 24
