Just this one last trip and she’s finally mine. Captain Spencer Pierce stared out the window of the bridge, lost in his thoughts. Ten years ago, he’d signed himself over to a life of indentured servitude in order to earn ownership of the Dark Hawk. Almost a third of his lifetime spent locked into a contract with a bastard who barely paid a living wage and argued over even the most basic repairs needed to keep his crews safe.
Deliveries to the Badlands included hazard pay, and Spencer signed up for every one he could, knowing true safety would only come when he finally owned the ship. Besides, since they’d never had to make a forced landing, they’d never run into any of the prisoners on the plains. The biggest hazards his crew had faced were the ones they created for themselves.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the image of Elsbeth’s dying moments. One more run and she’s ours, El. Just like we planned. When he opened his eyes, he caught an unexpected glimpse of something far ahead.
“What in the blazes?” He directed the Dark Hawk’s telescopic viewer toward their destination, the southernmost Badlands fortification. There, in front of the gates rested another ship, men already preparing her for departure. He snapped the viewer shut.
“Something amiss, Cap?” Mahala asked, striding onto the bridge.
He raked a hand through his hair then waved toward the fortress. “Some danged mess up. There’s another ship here already.”
Mahala slithered her spare frame into the pilot’s seat. “That don’ seem right. This been your run for a couple-a years now, ain’ it?”
Spencer hated it when Mahala got nervous. Afraid of some sort of reprimand, she would slip back into her slave speech patterns, reminding him of her past. He’d found her just north of the Confederate border at the same time the bounty hunter had. A little cash—and staring down the barrel of Spencer’s pistol—had convinced the other man to give up the search for the escaped slave. Mahala had been with his crew in one form or another since then, but he wanted both of them to be able to forget how she came to be there. “It has been. This is probably that dag-blamed senator messing with me so I can’t pay off the damn contract.” Spencer clenched his jaw. “I don’t care. I’m making the run. They can figure it out on the other end—after I own my ship.”
He fussed around the bridge, pulling levers to tilt the Dark Hawk’s massive sails.
“Cap? I think I saw something.”
After setting the new sail angles, Spencer pulled on the brass locking mechanism, grunting as it refused to budge. Again. “What kind of something?” He hissed and pulled harder.
Mahala caught his eye. “The kind you might want to see if it happens again.”
Spencer whacked the lever with the flat of his hand and marched over to the window. “What am I looking for?”
“I only caught a quick look. Might’ve been a bird.”
“I don’t have time for birds.” He turned back to the lock.
“Ain’ never seen a big white flying critter in the Badlands, though.”
The words made him return to the window. When he’d started making runs this way, he’d taken time to study the region. Mahala was right, there shouldn’t have been anything like that in these skies. After several seconds of staring into the dusk, he was ready to chalk it up to her imagination. Then he saw it. An arrow with some sort of tail attached.
He flipped open the viewer and twisted it in the direction the projectile came from. An injured and bloodied woman stood atop one of the jagged peaks, a cache of weapons strapped to her naked torso. Spencer turned to Mahala. “Get Zeke. Now! Tell Henri we’ve got wounded coming aboard.”
As Mahala dashed off, Spencer returned to the levers, readjusting them to a slow vertical decline. He hung from the lock, battered it with his fist and prepared to kick it when Zeke walked in.
The taller, broader man elbowed him out of the way, hit the lever on one side, then the other, and pulled it down. “Is that what you needed?”
Spencer shook his head. “There’s a woman down there. She’s hurt. You’re going to need to haul her up.”
“Will do, Cap’n. Just hold her as steady as you can.” Zeke handed his hat to Mahala as she reentered the bridge. “Take care of that for me, little lady.” He winked at her and strode off the bridge.
“Is this smart?” Mahala asked with a raised eyebrow as she tossed Zeke’s hat into the corner.
As they descended, the peaks closed in. “Probably not, but I can’t think of any good reason for her to be there bleeding, except trouble.” He angled the viewer. They were coming down on course. Just a bit lower and they could—
A squeaky rubbing pulled him away from the viewer and back to the controls. He twisted the levers to maintain their altitude. They couldn’t go any lower, rocks were already pressing into the sides of the dirigible. Too big a tear couldn’t be fixed in the air, and they’d hit the ground too fast for repairs to be helpful.
“That’s the best we’ve got, Zeke,” Spencer yelled, racing for the hatch.
Zeke nodded and started to lower himself through the opening. His brow furrowed for a moment and he glanced at Spencer. “Change of plan, Cap’n.” Zeke twisted and pushed off from the opening, the rope around his body pulling at the coil on the deck.
Spencer rushed for the hatch. Below him, the woman teetered on the edge of the cliff. As he watched, she lost her footing and fell backward. Only Zeke’s dive allowed him to fall fast enough to catch her. The rope continued to slide through the hatch. As soon as Zeke had the woman, Spencer grabbed the reel brake, slowing their descent until he had to stop it entirely before the rope ran out.
“Noah!” He couldn’t manage the reel and pull them inside on his own.
In seconds, the lanky repairman was at his side, face covered in soot. He grabbed the reel and took over rolling the rope up. Spencer returned to the edge. The rope scraped against the opening, tiny bits fraying before his eyes. He risked a glance down. Though Noah had been winding the reel as fast as he could, Zeke was still more than twenty yards below the deck.
Spencer grabbed a brass rod and held its smooth surface between the rope and the sharp lip of the hatch. The metal bucked against his hands, but he held fast, the lip slicing into his fingers as he gripped. At last they were close enough. Spencer threw aside the bar and strapped onto the deck, his torso dropping through the hatch.
“Woman after my own heart,” Zeke yelled. “Even dying, she wouldn’t let go of her toys.”
With an angry growl, Spencer snatched the crossbow from the woman, beautiful even through the layer of dirt and the black markings of her tattoos, and threw it behind him. When he reached to take her from Zeke’s grasp, she refused to take his hand.
“Easy,” Zeke said, his voice almost lost on the wind, “I can’t get you up like this. Let him help.”
Her disdainful expression didn’t change, but she grasped Spencer’s wrists at last. He struggled to hold on, her grip weak and one arm slick with blood. More hands reached down, Noah having left the reel, and helped pull the woman up and over Spencer’s head. He eased his chest back onto the deck.
The rope inched its way up. Zeke’s fingers could almost grab the rim of the hatch when the fiber snapped. Spencer plunged through the opening and grabbed the bigger man by the wrist. Zeke’s weight pulled on his arm; tendons fought not to tear. Finally, Zeke caught his other hand. Noah dragged them up by Spencer’s ankles.
With everyone safely on the rough wooden deck, Spencer turned over and faced the woman, wincing as he landed on his aching arm. “Now, what the hell were you running from that you almost got yourself killed up there?”
Her green eyes rolled, eventually focusing on him. In that moment, the rest of Spencer’s world disappeared, the dying woman all that remained. Her tongue seemed to twist around the words, “Our fortress was attacked. The queen is dead. Tell your captain to flee before they pursue.”
Spencer locked gazes with her. “I am the captain.”
She stared at him and
sputtered, laughing. “Then we are doomed.”
Chapter Two
Ever struggled, trying to rise to her feet as the deck swayed beneath her.
The wiry little man with the haunted eyes who called himself captain said, “Zeke, take her to the infirmary. Henri should be waiting.”
With a nod, the one who had carried her aloft bent over and swept her off her feet. Ever beat her fists against his broad, well-muscled chest, but with how much blood she’d lost, the blows were weak and ineffective. “Ma’am, the captain said to take you to Henri. You can hit me till your hands fall off, but that’s what I’m gonna do.”
He carried her down a corridor paneled with deep stained wood that glowed in the light of staggered gaslamps. At last he stopped in front of a door and kicked it open. Inside, a throaty voice said, “I see your manners haven’t improved any with a guest aboard, Ezekial. Put her on the cot.”
Zeke’s arms tensed, squeezing Ever, but she didn’t make a sound. “The day I need manners on this ship is the day I quit and rejoin the damn militia.” Though his words were angry, his grip loosened and he settled Ever onto the cot gingerly. “Henri isn’t the most fun person to be around, but she’ll patch you up a sight better than the rest of us could manage.”
A short woman with blond hair piled high on her head eased around Zeke’s bulk. “That’s only because you ruffians—” Her blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. She spun on him. “What in the name of all that is good and holy did you do with her clothes?”
“Nothing. She came aboard just like you see her.” Zeke backed out of the room, his hands raised against the woman’s glare.
She turned to Ever, her words softer but her gaze just as hard. “Is that true? I wouldn’t put it past him to take advantage of you.”
Ever processed the exchange, her brain slowly shifting from the mishmashed language of the Badlands to the English she hadn’t used regularly since her school days. “He speaks the truth. The remainder of my clothing is lost below us.” The cot shivered beneath her as the ship gained altitude.
The blonde braced herself against the door, and Ever took in her elaborate costume. Everyone else on the ship was dressed for working, in rough shirts and pants. The woman before her was corseted over a delicate white blouse. Her bustled skirt swished against the floorboards. Even when dressed for the queen’s dinner, Ever hadn’t been this formal. “Who are you?”
“I’m Henrietta Mason, ship’s nurse.” She frowned at Ever’s bare chest as she knelt and set to work cleaning the deep gash in her arm.
Ever held steady, only flinching when Henrietta brought a palm-sized brass contraption over. It had wings and a needle sharp point on one end. “What is that?”
Eyelashes fluttering, Henrietta held the machine over Ever’s wound. “One of my father’s designs. He’s promised me a newer model soon, with gold needles.” Her eyes glittered. “But this one works fine. Just relax, it will stitch up your wound faster than I could manage.”
“I’d prefer the time.” Ever edged away from the clockwork, her movements sluggish.
“Nonsense. Your…tattoos—” she turned up her nose as she said the word, “—prove you aren’t afraid of needles. Please don’t force me to call Ezekial back to hold you down.” With one hand, she pushed Ever onto the cot and released the clockwork.
Ever’s scream ripped through the ship.
Spencer flew down the corridor, Zeke on his heels. “Honest, Cap’n, everything was fine when I left ’em.”
“Well, obviously it isn’t fine now.” What the blazes is that infernal woman up to? He barged through the infirmary door just as the scream cut off. Their guest lay on the cot, unconscious, a mangled clockwork on the floor. Patting her disheveled hair back into place, Henri stood away from the scene, the stench of ether coming from a cloth in her hand. His teeth ground together. “Henri…”
She straightened her skirt before answering. “It had to be done. She grew violent, and I knew she would never cooperate for the transfusion.”
The blood drained from Spencer’s face as he gaped at the woman on the cot, all her strength gone with the drug-induced sleep. No longer arrogant, she looked innocent, soft. “Is that absolutely necessary?”
A clasp snicked as Henri opened her case. “Only if you want her to live. She cut a vein. If she had broken the machine before it stitched that, she would have died anyway. The little harlot was lucky.”
Spencer choked on a scathing, curse-filled retort. He didn’t have much choice when faced with Henri. Her father, the Dark Hawk’s owner, had insisted she join the crew, and the only reason Spencer could see for that was to spy, looking for him to make a mistake. He had too much invested to risk losing the ship over a few stupid words.
As much as Henri held herself above the rest of the ship, pretended at propriety, she knew nothing about any culture besides the high industry of the United States. To her, even the simplicity of the Confederates was foreign. The Badlands may as well have been another planet altogether.
Zeke, however, didn’t have any compunction about putting her in her place. “Harlot? You think just ’cause she ain’t dressed in finery that makes her a whore?” He pointed at the marks tattooed over the woman’s body. “In the Badlands, these ain’t something they give to any hussy who spreads her legs. She’s a warrior. One of the people who keeps all those criminals you northerners send across the border from coming right back. Show a little damn respect.”
Arching an eyebrow high, Henri pulled a tube from her bag. “Since you’re clearly so enamored, will you be the one volunteering to share your blood with her?”
The silence stretched between them, then Zeke grabbed his sleeve and started rolling it up. “Danged right I will—”
“No, you won’t.” Spencer laid a firm hand on the other man’s arm. “Last time you did that—” he swallowed hard, “—our pilot died.”
Zeke’s face flushed crimson, but he didn’t argue.
“I’ll do it. Even if we didn’t need to know what happened at the fortress, I won’t let her die on my watch.” Spencer pulled off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve. “Zeke, on the bridge with Mahala. Make sure we get out of here without trouble.”
The first officer nodded and strode from the room. Spencer settled into the chair next to the woman’s still form and leaned his head against the wall.
“Are you certain you want to do this, Spencer? I know how you hate needles.” Henri trailed her fingers delicately along his arm, the tubing in hand.
He spared a glance at the warrior woman lying next to him. What he’d said hadn’t been a lie. They needed to know what had happened. Beyond that, something in the woman’s eyes touched a place deep inside him, a piece of himself he’d thought dead and gone. For a moment he wondered how he would explain this to Mason. If he didn’t complete the delivery, he wouldn’t be paid, which meant he was still indebted to the man. His fist clenched as he shut his eyes. “Just get on with it.” Henri jabbed his skin with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. At least it wasn’t that blamed machine.
In Ever’s dream, tiny metal claws pinched her skin as a machine drilled into her arm. She bolted upright, her eyes wide and panicky, and batted at an imaginary clockwork. Her jaws clenched around a scream she refused to utter.
A hand clamped down on her wrist. She tried to pull away, but it held fast, pinning her fingers against her stomach. “Now, if you were intent on killing yourself, I wish you’d been a mite clearer about it when we brought you on board.”
Her eyes focused on the narrow room with its glossy wood panels and tattered cot. Then she met the gaze of the man holding her wrist. From the strength of the grip, she’d expected the one who had brought her to the ship. Zeke. Instead she found herself inches away from the man who called himself captain. Dark brown hair hung across his brow, shadowing intense blue-gray eyes. Ever held his gaze unblinking. “I do not wish to die.”
“Good.” He nodded at the thin tubing joining thei
r arms.
As easy as it was to meet his eyes, she fought to look away. The red liquid in the tube provided a welcome diversion. “Your Henri did this?”
He laughed, and the sound touched her in places far more intimate than her ears. “She isn’t my anything, but yes, this is Henrietta’s handiwork. She’ll be back in a moment.”
Ever could feel him watching her as she stared at the blood, and heat rose in her cheeks. As much as she wanted to make some sarcastic remark to put herself at ease, she couldn’t insult the man who had clearly given her his own life force. “Your sacrifice is most appreciated, Mister—”
“Captain Spencer Pierce, at your service. And might I have the honor of your name as well, seeing as how you’re a guest on my ship?”
His voice held the same tone of command she’d heard upon waking. She could have resisted, could have refused to answer, but if he was the captain, she needed his help. The airship swayed, rolling to the side. A tiny flutter danced in her belly as her eyes traveled past his strong jawline to meet his steely gaze again. “I am Ever of the Badlands, Commander of the Queen’s Border Guard. And I must request your assistance in retrieving the heir to her throne.”
If he was surprised by her request, it didn’t show on his features. He scrubbed at his stubbled jaw and opened his mouth to speak. It snapped shut again when the door swung wide. Something in his face told her to stay quiet, but Ever couldn’t fathom his need for secrecy on his own vessel.
The tiny blonde woman walked in, every hair back in place after their altercation. She nodded at Ever. “Alive. Well done, Spencer. I’d have thought your blood at least as poisonous as Ezekial’s, but you are a Union man born and bred. Perhaps that made the difference.” She gave him something resembling a smile, but Ever couldn’t tell for certain what emotion truly lay behind the expression.
Badlands Page 2
