Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

“I made a choice, Father,” London said, gentling her voice. “A deliberate choice. One I thought about for a good long while. I cannot let the Heirs subjugate the world for England’s gain. It is wrong. And I think, I hope, that deep down, you know what I say to be true. Please, Father,” she whispered, feeling her eyes grow hot. She stood not five feet from him, saw his chest rise and fall as he gulped air, almost panting. “It isn’t too late. Not for you or for us.”

  She waited, her pulse a speeding river, everything she ever was and would be in her eyes for her father to see. A memory leapt into London’s mind, of her father taking her as a very small girl to the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park and buying her a toy lion. He had wanted to give her something more suitable for a girl, a pretty toy zebra or even a giraffe, but she would have nothing but the lion, and he had bought it for her, a fond smile upon his face as he gave her the toy, and he said she would have to feed it often or else it might get hungry and eat one of the housemaids. She had promised to feed the lion, sneaking it bits of biscuits after tea, during nap time, until her nurse scolded her for bringing food into her bed, and then she got older and forgot all about the toy. Where was it now? In some dusty corner of the nursery? Given away?

  “Oh, London,” her father said sadly. He heaved a great sigh, as if crumbling from the inside, and his shoulders sagged. He lowered the revolver. “I see now. I see what I must do.”

  Her chest tightened with hope. He understood! They could both be saved. And Mother, too. Jonas…would take time. But surely if she could convince her father to abandon the Heirs, it could be done for Jonas, too. And then—

  “Father!” London yelped as her father raised the revolver again. And pointed it at her heart.

  “This is a mercy,” her father said. “To save our family’s honor, and yours.”

  She stared at him. He was glacial, impenetrable, a frozen edifice where, moments earlier, he had been a man, a parent. In his eyes, there was no recognition, only cold determination to eliminate an adversary.

  London knew she should flee or duck or do something, but she was rooted to the spot, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Her father would kill her. Her father.

  Then there was a blur and a grunt, and London hardly knew what was happening until she saw Bennett throw his shoulder into her father’s chest. The older man, startled, hadn’t time to defend himself, and he dropped his gun as he toppled backward, over the rail. She heard a splash and a shout.

  Bennett leaned far over the rail, but halted his momentum enough to keep from joining her father in the water. He turned and didn’t spare her father a glance. “Get us the hell out of here,” he commanded Kallas.

  London could only stand as Athena and Bennett helped with the sails, Kallas raising anchor and steering the caique away from the damaged steamship. Dimly, she heard men in another rowboat coming to her father’s aid, pulling him from the water.

  She was vaguely aware of the caique’s motion, sailing swiftly away from the island of the Colossus. Wind and sun, the pitch of the boat. She felt these things from a great distance. It wasn’t until the island was far behind them, and the Heirs, and her father, that London was finally able to move. She took several leaden steps toward the quarterdeck house, not sure where she was going, feeling entirely entombed in ice.

  Bennett strode to her, and his arms came up around her, pulling her against him. He was warm, so warm, that she began to thaw. He rocked her, softly.

  “Don’t cry, love,” he crooned.

  Her hand came up to touch her cheek and came away wet. “I never truly believed. Not until now. Some part of me prayed things could be set to rights.” Fire lined her throat. It hurt to speak, yet she could not stop herself. “He wants to kill me, Bennett. My own father will murder me, if given the chance.”

  Profound sorrow gleamed in Bennett’s eyes as he gazed down at her, brushing her hair from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so bloody sorry.”

  She buried her face against his chest, solid and broad, allowing herself this moment to fully lean on him, take some of the strength he readily offered. “I don’t regret my choice,” she said, her voice muffled as she pressed herself tight. “If I had to, I’d make the exact same decisions. But it hurts so damned much.”

  “Give me your pain, love,” he said, holding her against the steady beat of his heart. “Let me take it for you.”

  She shook her head. “No, the pain is mine to bear. I need it.” She took a ragged breath. “To make me stronger.”

  As concisely as possible, London and Bennett told Athena and Kallas what the Colossus had said to them. They gathered around the wheel to conference, and even this helped give a slight ease to the ache around London’s heart. She needed to keep moving forward, to find the Source and give meaning to herself when truly everything she had ever known of her old life was gone.

  “The Black Temple,” mused Kallas. “Even with my sailor’s lore, I’ve never heard of such a place.”

  “We will have to find a means of locating it,” said Athena.

  “Yes,” London agreed, “but what worries me is how the Heirs keep finding us.” Her father was an Heir now, no longer her father. She must learn to think of him that way.

  “I haven’t seen any birds following,” said Bennett, leaning against the rail with his arms crossed. “But it must be magic of some kind. We’re the only ones who’ve been able to find and follow the clues.”

  “There may be a way to learn what magic they use,” mused Athena. She went below and returned moments later with a red silk pouch. Holding out her hand, she poured the contents of the pouch into her palm. “This is sand I collected from the island with Demeter’s spring,” she explained. “It is imbued with the goddess’s sacred essence.”

  The witch waved her other hand over the sand, chanting softly. “Harvest Mother, guide us. Reveal to us the cunning tricks of our enemies, the enslavers of magic, that we may shield from greedy eyes your gifts of enchantment.”

  With a sound of whispers, the sand began to swirl in a tiny whirlwind, contained within Athena’s palm. The small vortex grew in size and speed, rising up from the witch’s hand until it spun away from her. Soughing, it scudded over the wooden deck in widening concentric circles. It seemed to move steadily, without purpose, passing Bennett and Kallas, but when the whirlwind neared London, it lingered.

  London moved aside, thinking she blocked the vortex’s path. Yet, stepping away, the vortex followed her, almost like a dog sniffing at her to determine if she was friend or foe. She looked at Bennett, slightly alarmed. She had no wish to be bitten.

  “Do not be afraid,” Athena said. “It cannot harm you. Stay where you are.”

  Easy for the witch to say, without a magical sand whirlwind trailing her. Still, London rooted her feet, even when the vortex grew even larger. It shifted, moving over her, encompassing her in its swirling walls. She squinted and shielded her face from the scouring sands. From within the whirlwind, she saw the vague outline of Bennett striding toward her.

  “Not yet,” Athena’s voice clipped. “I must read the sands.”

  “Hurry the hell up,” Bennett growled. “I don’t like it.”

  “A moment more…yes…I release you!” With the witch’s clap, the sand fell to the deck, scattering. As soon as the vortex died, Bennett was beside London, threading his fingers with hers, pulling her close so their shoulders brushed.

  “What did the sands say?” London asked. Seeing Athena’s somber face did not help the frisson of fear winding its way up London’s spine.

  “It is the Bloodseeker Spell.” The witch’s mouth flattened into an unhappy line. “A drop of a kinsman’s blood is used to track a blood relation. It is strongest when the ties are close.”

  “Like a father and daughter.” Bennett tightened his grip on London’s hand when Athena nodded.

  Even though London was not truly responsible for the spell, guilt clutched at her. All this time, her own blood betrayed her and the Blades.
“How do we break the spell?”

  Athena glanced at Bennett, apprehensive, as if she feared his reprisal more than anything else.

  “How?” Bennett demanded.

  “What they say about killing the messenger,” Athena said, “please remember that.”

  “Athena,” Bennett warned.

  The witch saw that she had no choice but to reveal what she knew. “Blood. It is broken through blood.”

  Athena had been right to be frightened. When Bennett learned what had to be done to break the Bloodseeker Spell, he swore so long and foul that even Kallas was impressed.

  Bennett hated it. He hated everything about it.

  “There’s got to be another way,” he insisted.

  “I am afraid not.” Athena looked apologetic. “Only through the shedding of the shared blood can the spell be undone.”

  London, who had been following this exchange silently, gave Bennett’s hand a squeeze. Her voice was low but steady. “It’s all right. I will do it.” She gave him an encouraging smile, as if he was the one that needed comforting, then turned to Athena. “Do we need a special knife?”

  “One with a black blade. I keep such a knife with my magic implements.”

  “Please get it,” said London. “I’ll make myself ready.”

  When Athena went below, Bennett stepped even closer to London, needing the feel of her. London had already weathered so much today, so much over the past days and weeks, and strain tightened in the corners of her eyes and mouth. His life—dodging from one close call to the next—thrilled him. He had no regrets, no desire to pursue a quiet and safe life, and he knew it was the same with the other Blades. They believed in their cause, and they were also, truthfully, slightly insane, part of the small breed of people who courted danger. That breed was kept small by natural selection. Some of them lived, others didn’t. It was a fact, and he and the other Blades knew it. So when they fought side by side, they did watch out for one another, never seeking death or harm, but they were ready when such things happened.

  London wasn’t a Blade. She might be ready to embrace danger, could take hits when they came. God knew she’d received her share only today. But Bennett hadn’t grown the armor to protect himself when she hurt. She could tear him apart with her courage.

  “I wish you didn’t have to do this,” he said, low.

  Absolute conviction shone in her dark eyes. “Me, too. But I do. The sooner, the better.” She leaned up, on the tips of her toes, brushing her mouth against his. “It will be fast. Hardly anything.”

  Again her impulse to console him was almost more than he could stand. Before he could speak, she slipped from him, gliding toward the rail of the ship and rolling up her sleeve.

  “I see you have prepared yourself,” said Athena, emerging from below with the knife. The black blade absorbed light rather than reflected it, and silver branches wove around the hilt. Bennett wanted to knock it from Athena’s hand so that it disappeared into the sea, but he held himself ruthlessly in check.

  Athena presented the knife to London, hilt first. “The symbol looks like this.” She traced upon her own forearm the outline of a bird in flight. “It signifies freedom, and must be deep enough to draw blood.”

  “I understand.” London took the knife, and her hand looked small and fragile wrapped around the hilt. She drew a deep breath, extending her exposed arm out so that it was suspended over the water. Even in the bright light of day, her face looked pale. Pale but determined.

  Bennett wondered if he should close his eyes. He’d seen more than his share of field surgery, having either performed it on others or himself. The sight of blood wasn’t one he welcomed, but it didn’t bother him, either. A part of his life, and the world of the Blades. Seeing London shed blood, on the other hand, made him want to rip up forests and punch mountains.

  He kept his eyes open. But his fists curled so tightly that they turned to rock, aching worse than when climbing. He didn’t feel it. He felt only London’s pain when, after drawing another, steadying breath, she took the knife to the flesh of her forearm and began to carve into it. Stroke by stroke, the symbol of the bird emerged in bright crimson upon her pale skin.

  The knife never wavered. She did not stop, and made one soft, hardly audible hiss as blood flowed from her arm. Red and rich, her blood rolled from her flesh to drip into the sea.

  “That better be enough,” growled Bennett to Athena.

  The witch scooped up some of the sand that spread across the deck, then sprinkled it into the air. She watched the form it took as wind scattered the grains. “It is. The Bloodseeker Spell is broken.”

  As soon as those words left Athena’s mouth, Bennett swept London up in his arms and carried her below. He didn’t break stride, not even when grabbing a roll of muslin stored in the quarterdeck house.

  “I’m ruining your shirt,” London said, looking at the ruby stains she left on his clothes.

  “Don’t care.” He kicked open the door to his cabin, set her on the bunk, and immediately took a wad of muslin and dabbed it on her wound. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Cupping her arm in his hand, pressing the muslin there to staunch the bleeding, he felt the slimness of her, but also her toughness. Once satisfied that the flow of her blood slowed, he took fresh strips of muslin and wrapped them around the wound, as careful as if binding a bird’s wing.

  “What happened to your hands?” London asked.

  He glanced down to see the red, angry indentations his fingers had left in his palms. “I didn’t like that.”

  A small smile tilted her mouth. “I didn’t, either. But it’s done now.” Her smile faded, leaving behind quiet determination and acceptance. “The link has been severed.”

  Bennett tipped her chin up. His eyes were brilliant gems, shifting from aquamarine to darkest sapphire, as he took her in, caressing her face with his gaze. The clean angles of his jaw, brow, and nose, the sensuous perfection of his mouth, now uncharacteristically serious. Lord, he was a beautiful man. All the more so because he was bruised and bloody, a warrior as much as a scoundrel.

  She had seen him climb and fight and defend her, almost to the death. He flew, literally flew. And now he looked at her with such heat and soul, she felt the last slivers of ice around her heart turn to mist.

  “I love you,” he said, solemn.

  She was so battered inside, she couldn’t hide her wince. She hadn’t the strength right now to protect her heart. “I know.”

  He shook his head, looking fierce and intent. “I love you.”

  “I know,” she repeated. “You’ve said so.” She might truly cry now, to think of what she felt for him, how it could not be reciprocated. Must she eventually lose everything?

  Bennett squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if frustrated. “Damn, this is what I get for talking too much.” He opened his eyes. “Monkeys in hats,” he said.

  She blinked at him, uncomprehending. “Did you hit your head?”

  “Monkeys in hats,” he said again, with growing heat. “That’s what I mean when I say, ‘I love you.’ I mean that you’re the woman I need beside me, all day, every day. I mean that I can’t imagine my life without you. I mean that when you hurt, it feels like a knife in me, cutting me from the inside out.” He paced in the tiny cabin, ricocheting back and forth like a bullet. “I mean that I hate the idea of anyone but me touching you. Just the thought makes me want to kill. I mean that I hate the idea of me touching anyone but you. I mean that when I see a goddamn monkey wearing a goddamn hat, I want to tell you about it. You and no one else.”

  She remembered what she had said to him the first night they had made love. Her palms grew damp, her mouth dry, the pain of her cut arm forgotten.

  “You mean,” she breathed, “you’re in love with me?”

  “I don’t care what words anyone uses,” he growled, stopping his pacing to stand in front of her. “Use the words of all the languages you know. Or make some up. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I want
to be with you forever. Only you. And I hope to God,” he said, his voice rough as he stroked her hair, her face, “that you only want me.” There was no glib charm now, only the raw truth of his heart, laid bare before her.

  He was shaking. She felt that as he touched her. And she trembled, too. Surely he felt that.

  She was long past being safe or smart or protective, yet she felt compelled to ask, “Are you certain? You might grow tired of me, you know, long before forever comes.”

  “I’ve lived with myself for thirty-two years,” he rumbled. “I know what the hell I’m talking about. I love you, damn it.”

  He was breathing hard now, his cheeks flushed, jaw tight. She’d never seen him so impassioned, so serious. He was still a scoundrel, but he was so much more, now.

  When she at last found her voice, she said, “I monkeys in hats you, too.”

  Chapter 17

  The Daughters of the Sea

  At the very least, the stars should shift in the sky, the poles reverse or maybe something as minor as tigers learning to fly. Bennett, who had never once believed himself capable of giving his heart and body utterly and without regret to one woman, truly thought any of these miracles should have transpired the minute he confessed his love to London. Perhaps a second sun should burst to life in the sky when London, incredibly, admitted her own love for him.

  Or, if none of those natural phenomena were to happen, then time itself should stop, completely suspended, leaving Bennett and London to spend days, weeks, months, and years exploring each other, discovering everything about each other, bodies and minds. Nothing else but that, an enchanted bubble surrounding them.

  But the world, he learned, didn’t stop because his life had been completely and wonderfully upended. He loved London, she loved him, and the damned Heirs were still out there. Those bastards’ greedy claws sought dangerous magic. They would rip down or kill anyone who stood in their way. Not only that, but while Joseph Edgeworth was still alive, London’s own life was in danger.