Iron Dominance

by Cari Silverwood

  Iron Dominance

  Cari Silverwood

  www.loose-id.com

  Iron Dominance

  Copyright © August 2011 by Cari Silverwood

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-61118-514-0

  Editor: Crystal Esau

  Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 425960

  San Francisco CA 94142-5960

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  To all those at ERAuthors who offered critiques and to my intrepid beta readers, Nerine Dorman, Bianca Sommerland, and Kimberely for all their help wrestling Iron Dominance into shape. Also a big thank-you to my editor, Crystal Esau.

  Chapter One

  Beneath Claire’s feet, the timber floor vibrated in harmony with the airship’s engines. Opposite her, through the brass-lipped oblong porthole, at the end of a long pylon, the port engine shone with reflected light against the backdrop of night sky. She stayed at parade rest, both hands behind her back, pretending to be unconcerned with how little of her was covered by the skimpy evening dress.

  The Common Room door was latched back. Whenever crew passed by, they tended to slow and give her an appraising look before continuing on. Even so, she’d rather the door be open—for apart from the four square tables and their chairs, she was alone with Lieutenant Inkline.

  As if he exuded frost, whenever Claire was near the lieutenant, her fingers and lips grew cold. With his arm propped on the table, Inkline leaned over studying the papers fanned out before him. He’d not spoken for ages. His name badge falsely declared him an officer of the PME Diplomatic Corps.

  Inkline—a diplomat. What a laughable cover identity. Except no one, especially she, would ever dare to laugh.

  “Sir,” she ventured, “permission to put on an overcoat before we land?”

  Lieutenant Inkline looked up, one corner of his plump mouth twitching. He smoothed his palm down the leg of his immaculate uniform whites as if wiping off sweat, then across his bald scalp. Already, she regretted speaking. “You’re a frankenstruct. You don’t question me. You don’t speak without permission. And you certainly don’t feel.” He casually swung his hand and smacked her face.

  The force jolted her sideways.

  “See?”

  She tasted blood, felt the sting from his fingers, but didn’t make a sound or do anything more than move her head until she once again stared over his shoulder. Tears wet her eyes. She blinked, ignoring them. Don’t feel. What an illogical statement. She could feel. She could, but no one cared, so yet again she curled her mind up in that dark cold place where others couldn’t see, and there she wept.

  “Your instructions.” Inkline read from the folder in a monotone. “After arrival at Helspin Airport, you will be conveyed to a residence where later this evening, there will be a state reception. Meet your target. Get him alone, seduce him, then kill him by whatever method you can, preferably using the poison spike in your shoe to make his death appear natural.” He glanced up and asked drily, “You do know what seduction is?”

  Confused as to whether she should reply, Claire stayed mute. From Inkline and the other trainers, she’d been taught enough to approach a target. The lessons, despite the subject matter, hadn’t been pleasant.

  “Let me remind you.” He took a step forward and put his hand around the back of her head, pulling her to him. His lips bit down, crushing her lips onto her teeth, his tongue snaking into her mouth. She didn’t struggle even though his foul breath almost made her gag. That would only earn her a reprimand.

  “Pah!” He released her and wiped his mouth. “Let’s hope you can do better than that tonight!” The glitter in his eyes told her the kiss had stirred him. The man had a cruel streak.

  “Now, for the target’s name. Theodore—”

  With a loud bang, the airship shuddered and slewed sideways. Through the porthole to her left, Claire saw the pylons of the engine twist like taffy. The engine broke away, propellers shrieking. Sparks of flaming metal and timber streamed backward into the night. Another bang. In a staggered line, three holes pocked the wall, spitting debris and shrapnel into the room. The lieutenant fell screaming, arm flung out sideways, a cloud of blood spraying from his shoulder. Knocked off balance, Claire grabbed at the back of a chair and barely stopped herself skidding across the floor. People yelled and cried in pain. An acrid, burned odor overlaid the sweet smell of blood and the perfume she wore.

  Still clutching the chair even though the damn thing’s legs had little more hold on the carpet than her shoes, she prayed the ship had enough buoyancy to stay in the sky. Prayed whoever shot at them lost interest, real fast.

  She kicked off her high heels and let her mind slide into a state of honed awareness, thanking God for her training. Sharp time, they’d called her ability, once they knew of it. Skin and muscle sizzled with tension. Time slowed. With a warbling whistle, three pieces of shrapnel tumbled toward her, scorching the air, leaving trails of gray smoke and a burning flutter of fragments. She threw herself sideways. A fist-sized chunk grazed her head.

  Another, louder bang; then an exploding crump shook the whole airship. Her head filled with smoke and blackness…and silence.

  * * *

  Theo rocked up and down on his toes, reassessing, wondering if there was anything more that could be done. Smoke rose from the crash site, marking a tattered line across the pale blue morning sky. To his right, a flock of crows cawed from their perch in an enormous fig tree.

  Thick roots at the base of the tree spread across the rock at the edge of the cliff. Below, deep at the bottom of the narrow ravine, ran the torturous Yang River. The airship crew were lucky they’d not crashed a few yards farther west. Bouncing off the cliff walls would have made survival impossible.

  What a mess. He coughed and spat to clear his throat of the sludge from the smoke. His hands were gray from moving pieces of the airship, and he was sure his face was no better. He eyed the wreckage. Though it had come down in one piece apart from the nose, fire had destroyed the section that lay a few yards away.

  “Found another survivor?” he yelled.

  Dankyo stalked toward him, the holster of his Gerwelt pistol slapping against his crisp gray trousers, his flattop of shaven black hair cutting across the sky like a steam ship across the ocea
n. Trust Dankyo to find time to dress formal on an emergency mission in the wee early hours. Though Dankyo was originally a refugee from the Greater Asian Monarchy, Theo had never regretted making him head of his personal security.

  From the position of the sun, it was past nine. Theo put a hand to his stomach, sorely missing breakfast. He tugged out his gold pocket watch. Close. Forty-two minutes after eight.

  “No, sir. Still only five survivors.” Dankyo saluted. No matter that Theo had been out of the air fleet for two years, the man insisted on military manners.

  “Cause of the crash?”

  “Well.” Dankyo rubbed his chin. “We’re smack on the border here. A Pancontinental Mexican Empire airship with multiple blast holes and the front section blown away by maybe an electro rocket? We didn’t do it, that’s for certain.”

  “The Brito-Gallic League.” Theo sighed. “Once the PME find out, we’ll have another flare-up of the war, and just when things were calming down.” The PME was touchy to say the least.

  Dankyo shrugged his immense shoulders then asked, “Can I hope, sir, that you might reactivate?” Despite their long years together, in the air corps as well as outside it, Theo still found himself startled at times by the Englishness of Dankyo. It was as if a butler had morphed into a Sumo wrestler.

  “No. You may not. I’m headed for politics as you well know, man. The horrors of war can be another’s worry from now on.”

  Horrors of war indeed. Too many men had lost their lives in the name of war. Lunacy. When he’d seen betrayal of fellow countrymen become the norm, he knew there were better ways to spend his life.

  A uniformed arm waved from the smoking mound of black and twisted metal. One of his house guards had found something. Above the man’s head, emblazoned across a slope of undamaged metal, was a yard-high white and orange eagle—all that remained of the PME flag.

  “Hoy! Sirs!” the guard yelled. “Another one! A woman!”

  “Come, Dankyo.” Theo set off jogging across the disheveled landscape, hopping here and there to clear small piles of debris. A lone crow took off, flapping and cawing, as he approached the man who’d waved.

  At his feet lay a slender woman, blonde hair still partly pinned into a chignon, the diamantes on her wine red evening gown dulled by smears of dirt. One strap had slipped from the shoulder, revealing the upper curve of her breast. Near the jagged hem of the dress, three deep yet neat cuts had bled and left red trails along the outer curve of her thigh.

  The unexpected sight of womanly flesh among all this blatant destruction was as jarring as a rose floating in a swamp.

  He slipped off his leather jacket and squatted to cover her. Her eyes snapped open—polished amber irises full of pain and confusion. From the rubble by her side, her arm swung weakly up; a broken metal strut tumbled from her hand.

  “Uh-uh.” He easily intercepted her wrist. Those big golden eyes slowly closed. A spirited one. Her arm flopped back above her head, jolting her breasts.

  She’s barely conscious. Having me looming over her must have frightened her. Casually his gaze traveled up to her shoulder, around the curves of muscle, up to her wrist…and he imagined her with both arms tied that way.

  He shook his head. “Where’s the doctor?”

  “Coming.” Dr. Eastway crunched across to them, his boots slipping on the loose earth. The last few strands of gray hair straggled across his forehead, and his black medical case swung from his hand.

  Though the doctor was bleary-eyed, Theo knew him to be competent and backed away to let him through.

  “Ah. Hmm. She’s breathing easily, sir. Pulse strong. Color good. Upper leg lacerations plus looks like a blow to the head from the abrasions on her temple. I need to get her back to the house, sir. Ah.” Dismay tinged the doctor’s last word. He peered at and probed the skin of the woman’s neck and shoulders, then rose slowly.

  “What is it, Doctor?”

  But the man merely flapped his hand at Theo while shaking his head. “A moment, please.” The brusque tone was normal. An early career tending soldiers hadn’t encouraged a good bedside manner.

  Having given instructions for the loading of the woman onto a stretcher, Dr. Eastway took Theo by the arm and led him to one side. “Ahem. Colonel, there’s something I should tell you about that young woman.”

  “Yes? Is she going to be all right?”

  “Perhaps. Most likely. Though spending the night out here has not helped any of them. I expect she will regain consciousness soon. But that is not my main concern, sir.”

  “The recovery of your patient is not your main concern? Doctor, I’m more than a little confused here. Explain yourself.”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “She is not a normal human. She’s a frankenstruct. A being made of cloned parts. To those who are privy to such knowledge, there are marks that reveal this. The PME are far advanced in cloning and genetics. Do you still want me to tend to her?”

  “What?” Anger stirred in Theo.

  “Ah.” The doctor bowed his head. Clearly he’d realized his error. “Of course, some are quite happy to allow them a degree of humanity. And such opinions are not mine to judge. However, there is, sir”—the doctor coughed—“the question of the fine for aiding or harboring a frankenstruct. I believe it is ten thousand drachma.”

  Theo pressed his lips together. A trivial sum to him, but to the doctor it would mean far more. “I’ll settle any such fines if they occur. But first someone would need to report that we have committed such a…transgression. None of my men here would do so.”

  The doctor blinked rapidly. “Thank you, sir. My lips are sealed, as you know, sir. I too am indebted to you for employment. I shall attend to her injuries.”

  “Do so.”

  From her dress this woman must be some sort of companion. Perhaps a sexual one? That the PME used frankenstructs as slaves was common knowledge, but to see one… Theo shook his head, bemused. She’d seemed so normal, so female, so very fragile. He’d wanted to stroke that porcelain-fine skin yet also to pick her up like some lost puppy and shelter her from harm. He smiled wanly.

  The doctor was correct, though. Frankenstructs were illegal and to be destroyed on sight. He couldn’t do that. He’d pay the fine if he had to. Money wasn’t everything.

  * * *

  Consciousness melted into being like clouds blown away by a cold and malevolent wind. Every jolt and swing of the stretcher Claire lay on vibrated fresh pain through her head and along her right leg. She gritted her teeth; almost everywhere hurt. Her first mission was off to an awful start.

  Through the fringe of her lashes, she watched as two gray-uniformed men carried her stretcher into the grand foyer of an enormous dwelling. By letting her head loll to one side and then the other, she could see almost everything. As well as the stretcher bearers, two other men walked behind or at her side.

  “I must advise sending her to the lockup cell, sir,” said one.

  The second man replied. “With the men? Dankyo, even for you, I find that appalling. The guest bedroom will do nicely.”

  Ah, she thought drowsily. This is the one in charge. The owner of this mansion, perhaps? She liked him more than the other, colder one.

  At eye level, though she was the one moving, paintings seemed to bob past on parade, along with statues and fancy vases.

  Though it felt as if someone had played drums on her body with a meat tenderizer, she marveled at everything. The men stopped and put her stretcher down with a small bounce at the foot of a wide curling staircase. A wave of nausea welled up her throat, then subsided.

  “Are you certain of this, sir?” said Dankyo. The badge on his gray uniform announced him head of security. A house that needed a head of security—such ostentation spoke of wealth or paranoia or both. He looked…formidable.

  Dankyo moved with grace despite his bulk. She narrowed her eyes further. To be discovered secretly observing him… She suppressed a shudder. He radiated danger.

  “Yes, Dank
yo,” spoke the other, whose name she’d yet to hear, except that all addressed him as sir. His deep voice possessed an alluring rightness, a surety that whatever he said would be obeyed. Even the simplest of his words compelled her to listen.

  This man had told the doctor to minister to her at the crash site, despite knowing she was a frankenstruct. His words had been peculiar enough to stand out from the painful throb of the merry-go-round of colors and sound inside her head. That any human would bother to do this for her was incredible.

  She crushed the hope that bubbled up. Stupid to think he might care. Always there were reasons. Nothing came without a price, though usually the reward came after the task was done and not before.

  “The telegraph has come back, sir,” said Dankyo. “There’ll be an army escort meeting us at Hoskitt in two hours, then an airship to New Baskerton. The survivors will be deported back to Merica. There’s no point in putting her in the guest room. She can go with the men.”

  “She’s not going, Dankyo. Be damned if I’m going to let the bureaucrats decide her future.” Anger lent a hard edge to the words. “You know as well as I, they’ll order her euthanized before they’ll let her be deported. It’s official policy. Take her up.”

  The stretcher wobbled under her and was raised in the air, tilting.

  Euthanized. She knew what that meant: death.

  Once she was well, she’d escape. It was her duty to. Where to, though? A notion crystallized. Here I am, by myself. No Inkline. What if I go somewhere else and not back to the PME? Like a dog chasing its tail, the idea went around and around. What if?

  The headache stopped her pinning that crazy notion down. Later, though. She needed to figure this out.

  On the floor above they took her into a room bigger than the one her entire training squad had slept in. A four-poster bed of brushed silver and bronze dominated the floor next to a set of four timber doors. The bronze and green stained glass in the middle section of the doors matched the green drapes of the bed and the bronze poles holding up the bed’s canopy. Everywhere was opulence.