by Anne Renwick
“Yes, yes. Yes. I will jump.” Olivia moved to stand directly behind her. “If I don’t survive, be certain to tell Ian—”
She stopped herself. Voicing it out loud would make it irrevocable. She needed time to think, to analyze this madness. So did Ian. The circumstances of the last few days… could she trust her heart? Her instincts?
“Tell him yourself,” Elizabeth said. Then she jumped.
“Wait!” Olivia yelled. But of course it was too late.
She climbed into the window, grateful for the numbing cold of the winter wind that buffeted her face and blew her skirts against her legs. Heart in her throat, she watched Elizabeth. In graceful arcs, she swooped and turned, spiraling toward the ground with incredible elegance, as if she’d always been meant to fly.
Maybe this wasn’t as difficult as she imagined.
Three. Two. One.
Olivia spread her wings, locked them straight and—resisting the impulse to squeeze her eyes shut—jumped.
Icy wind snapped the canvas tight, yanking against the wooden struts, straining every muscle in her arm, in her chest. She struggled to make the first turn, narrowly avoiding an outstretched and snarling rainspout. On her second turn, her left wingtip scraped against the stone of a balcony, jarring her sore arm.
Too close.
A cry from the ramparts reached her ears, but she could not spare a moment’s glance. Not with the bitter wind rushing over her, stabbing through her flimsy dressing gown, tangling her hair, and scraping away the protective tears that seeped from her eyes. Unlike Elizabeth who seemed part bird, she was meant to keep her feet on solid earth.
Straining against the wind, she pulled with her right arm, angling her body, trying to correct her course and largely succeeding. She soared over the River Kerzen, aiming for the green fire that burned in a clearing in the deep and darkening woods where, presumably, Mr. Black and a score of gypsies waited, ready to whisk them swiftly and secretly toward France.
In the distance, Elizabeth disappeared behind the trees. Olivia had no doubt she’d land with grace and beauty.
Whoosh.
What was that? Olivia turned her head. A mistake.
She faltered. Corrected course. But not before she’d seen a solitary archer astride a pteryform taking careful aim. The count?
Whoosh. A steel-tipped arrow rushed past Olivia. The next tore through her skirts. The one that followed a moment later pierced her left wing. She struggled to compensate, pulling with everything she had, desperately trying to reach the designated landing site where she could see waiting caravans—
Whoosh. Another arrow through her left wing. A ripping sound as the canvas tore. One minute the air held her aloft, the next minute it withdrew its support, and she topped sideways, plunging toward the trees below her all the while desperately flapping her one remaining wing to no avail.
Clawing branches rushed up at her, eager to snatch her from the air. The first few spindly branches scratched at her ankles, but none managed to maintain their grip as she crashed through the canopy, smashing and banging into a blur of branches of increasing size—
She jerked to a stop. Her pounding heart leapt into her throat, then dove toward her knees as her predicament registered. Some ten feet from the ground, a branch refused to release her, holding on tightly to the tattered canvas and wood and wire of her left wing. For a moment she hung there by her recently healed arm and whimpered in pain for said arm no longer felt wholly intact.
She kicked, feet flailing until finally her boots made contact with the trunk. She kicked again, reaching with her good arm to catch a nearby branch. She pulled and tugged and twisted, but the remnants of her wings thwarted her movement. Finally, she resorted to swinging her legs like a clock pendulum, gathering momentum until at last she was able to swing her legs over a sturdy branch.
“Help!” she called, looking up at the tangled mess in which her throbbing arm was enmeshed. Quite the pickle, this, hanging from a tree branch upside-down, blood rushing to her head. Bark dug into the skin of her fingers as muscles and tendons burned, a not-so-subtle warning that her grip was failing.
“Olivia!”
Ian. Thank goodness. “Here! I’m over here!” She wanted to weep with relief as he emerged from the now-dark woods and climbed the tree. Then he was beside her, pulling her upright and kissing her as if he’d thought her lost forever. Indeed, it had been close. She returned his kiss with equal fervor.
Far below them, Wei giggled, her laughter accompanied by a sound she recognized as Mr. Black clearing his throat.
Ian pulled away and, knife in hand, sliced through the canvas that held her prisoner. “Let’s get you down. You’ve a border to cross.”
Her chest grew tight. “We have a border to cross,” she insisted. But even before he spoke the words aloud, she knew. He was going back to the castle. Without her. This nightmare wasn’t over.
Chapter Thirty-Six
SNOWFLAKES DRIFTED LAZILY through the air, landing upon the long, dark-gold fringe of Olivia’s eyelashes. Her deep blue eyes looked up at him, both fearful and accusing, as the canvas gave way and he pulled her against his side. When her feet found purchase on the branches below them, he pressed a kiss into the tangle of her windblown curls. “I’m sorry, Olivia, but I have to go back.”
Watching through the spyglass Black had handed him, his heart had slammed against his sternum as first Elizabeth then Olivia leapt from the castle tower.
“When I saw the arrow slice through your wing—” Ian’s throat closed at the memory. She’d jumped. She’d flown. And soon she would be safe. He would make certain of it. “Go with Black, with Elizabeth and Wei to the border.”
She buried her face into the crook of his neck. “I’d rather come with you.”
“No.” Not an option. “As soon as I find the osforare apparatus—”
Thud. An arrow struck the tree trunk beside them, missing Ian’s shoulder by mere inches. Thwack. Another ripped another hole through Olivia’s already tattered skirts.
He leapt from the tree, landing hard upon the ground—Olivia in his arms—as everyone yelled at once.
“Overhead!” Black called. “Man on a pteryform.”
“The count!” Wei cried.
“He’s circling back!” Elizabeth screamed.
A dark, flapping shadow blotted out the moonlight as they ran through the woods, tripping and stumbling over tree roots, running for the cover of a rocky outcropping that seemed all too distant and all too meager a shelter.
The creature dropped from the sky cutting off their escape. It reared back on its hind legs, sulfurous eyes blazing and sharp beak snapping, as the count lifted his crossbow and took aim.
Ian shoved Olivia onto her feet, pushing her toward his sister and Wei who’d had the presence of mind to hide behind a tree. Black was nowhere to be seen. He threw his hands in the air. “Let them go,” he yelled, “and I’ll come without a fight.”
The crossbow lowered an inch. “Frau Rathsburn?”
“Completely healed,” he said, stepping forward from the shelter of the trees. “So strong she flew from your castle, crashed into the trees and still, her arm did not break.”
“Excellent.” The count’s eyes lit with a predatory gleam. “Run, Frau Rathsburn, Fräulein Elizabeth,” he called, raising his arm and taking aim. It seemed there would be no negotiations. “The Kaiser’s chemists will analyze the residue in the device, puzzle out its composition. You are no longer necessary, but neither can I simply allow you to leave. Word of this success cannot spread before our army reaches your shore.”
Ian was reaching for the handle of the dagger when a dark shadow—Black—stepped from the forest and a gleam of silver spun through the air. The count bellowed as Black’s knife plunged into his thigh, but it did not slow him. He swung the crossbow toward Black, and an arrow whistled. This time it was Black who yelled, falling backward upon the ground clutching his shoulder.
Ian flung his dagger, but h
e was not familiar with the balance of the Russian knife and, though it sliced across the count’s biceps drawing blood, the count managed to hang on to his weapon. The answering arrow sent in Ian’s direction went wide. A small victory.
The women screamed, but not in terror. A volley of rocks flew at the count, at the pteryform. A small nightingale launched into the air, pecking and scratching at the count’s head. As the count swatted at the bird, as the creature clawed the ground, its long, sinuous neck stretching out to hiss a fog of sulfur, Ian ran to Black. He dragged him into the relative shelter of the forest, searching out the arrow. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” The words emerged through gritted teeth as the agent pressed a weapon into Ian’s hands. “Pistol’s gone. Use my throwing knife.”
“I give you but one chance, Herr Rathsburn,” the count yelled, “to turn around and die facing me like a man.”
Black gripped Ian’s arm. “He has dismounted and stands ten paces behind you. Though his aim is true, his arm begins to shake. Don’t miss.”
Understood.
Ian tested the weight of the knife, gripping it lightly between his fingers. Crouching upon the balls of his feet, he shifted, sighting over his shoulder. In a single movement, he spun, flinging the knife into the count’s arm.
The crossbow clattered to the ground as the count sank to his knees, blood staining the snow that coated the forest floor. He pulled a dagger from his hip. “We’re not yet done, Herr Rathsburn. Try to finish me. Try.”
But the count was no longer Ian’s greatest concern. The pteryform, hissing and spitting, was advancing upon the women, talons lifted, beak snapping. He clapped his hands and yelled, drawing the creature’s attention. With the hand signals Katerina had used during their ill-fated balloon ride, Ian gave the pteryform a new target: the count.
Confused, the pteryform turned away from the women. Its feet crunched over snow-covered leaves to approach its master. Nostrils flaring it bent over the count, dragging in the scent of his blood.
“No!” the count cried, “I am your master!” With his hands, he issued a new series of orders.
Tame or wild?
The creature let out a low, resonating moan that made Ian’s blood run cold. Tail lashing, the creature leapt upon the count, gripping him in its talons.
Pulling Black to his feet, he slung the man’s arm over his shoulder. If this creature chose to make a meal of the count, he did not care to bear witness. Or to be the second course. As he dragged Black into the trees toward the wide-eyed women, the pteryform gave a final roar and launched itself into the air, lifting the count into the snowy night sky.
Wei ran to Black. Though unshed tears welled in her eyes, she announced, “When you are healed, you will teach me this knife trick.”
“Maybe. When you are much older,” Black said, ruffling her hair with his good arm. Those two had bonded quickly.
Elizabeth pressed a fist to her mouth, and Olivia stared at him with wide, blinking eyes. “Did it just—? Is it going to—?”
“We need to hurry,” Ian said. He did not wish to discuss what the creature may or may not do with the count. They had greater concerns. Katerina might still live. More pteryformes might yet still take to the night’s sky. And—somewhere—Zheng and the guardsmen prowled.
At the encampment, only two caravans—one man and one woman tending each—remained beside the smoldering remains of the strange green fire. Olivia approached the gypsies, speaking in halting Romani and presumably arranging for medical supplies.
The man brought Black a stool and held him steady, while the woman coaxed the fire back to life, heating the flat of a knife in the flames. Elizabeth turned away and covered her ears. It was a brutal few minutes, yanking the arrow from Black’s shoulder, cauterizing the wound, bandaging it tightly, and still this misadventure was far from over.
While Black caught his breath, he pointed the blue-green light of his decilamp at Olivia. “Your arm,” he said. “Tell me.”
She recounted a story of searing pain while Ian subjected her arm to a complete examination, poking and prodding, flexing and twisting. Though bruises discolored her skin, though the surrounding soft tissue was swollen, the bones—as he’d bragged to the count—appeared fully healed. “Amazing,” he murmured. She had survived the first stage of treatment, but given his work was still in experimental stages, she would need to be monitored. Closely. Carefully.
Something Olivia said jarred him from these new concerns. He looked up to find everyone looking at him expectantly.
“Repeat that please.”
“Katerina.” Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “What did you learn?”
“Much. But the count paid me a surprise visit. He interrupted my interrogation and dragged her away to conduct his own.”
Black cleared his throat. “Any spy so deeply entrenched as to evade our suspicions is resourceful and capable of improvisation.”
“If you both think she’s free to roam the castle,” Olivia said. “That means—”
“She’s preparing to take the apparatus—with its biochemical residues—to Russia.” He should have allowed the count to shoot her the moment he’d walked into the room.
A gong sounded in the distance. Two strikes. A pause. Then two more strikes. Wei’s eyes were two round saucers. “Uncle is preparing to launch Sky Dragon. Is bell for all hands on deck. If leather bird took count’s body back to castle and Uncle finds, he will be angry. He will not want countess to win.”
True, Zheng had an over-developed sense of personal honor. “One of them will have the osforare apparatus,” he said. “Our window of time to retrieve it grows short.” He slid his hand down Olivia’s bare arm, catching at her fingers. Time for him to leave her, to return to the castle and retrieve his device. Without it, they could have no future—and he could not leave the secret to unbreakable soldiers in the hands of the Russians or the Chinese.
Black stared at their entwined fingers.
Ian dropped her hand and stood. He’d proposed, but she’d yet to answer. He had no official claim. “The snow is picking up. Everyone to the caravans. The gypsies won’t appreciate leading their clockwork horses in a blizzard. Best to move out of range of the storm frigate. Head for the border.” He yanked Black to his feet. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Black nodded. Words were unnecessary. Retrieve the technology and Ian would be allowed to return to his prior life. With the information he’d collected and the device in hand, the duke would forgive all past mistakes.
“You can’t be serious,” Olivia cried.
“There has to be another way,” Elizabeth added.
With dark, sad eyes, Wei handed him a sack. Red Chinese characters adorned its surface. “I find this in Uncle’s cabin. This yours, yes?”
“Yes.” His shoulders released a knot. “Thank you.” It would be a relief to work with familiar blades. He dug the knives from the bag, slipping them back into place, strapping his sword upon his hip. Finally, he felt balanced. One last mission, fully armed. Almost. Ian eyed the rough, stained bandage wrapped around Black’s shoulder. Nor had he missed the man’s slight limp, a reminder of his recent encounter with Katerina’s pteryformes. There’d be no taking him to the castle as backup. “I don’t suppose you have another TTX pistol?”
Black twisted his lips. “Much as I would like to see you reinstated, Rathsburn, that Russian spy relieved me of my only pistol and all my cartridges.”
“I’m going with you,” Olivia stood, her eyes flashing defiance.
“No,” Ian said. “You’re not.”
“Certainly not in a torn dressing gown?” Black’s eyebrows rose. “You’d freeze to death. As the storm frigate approaches, visibility during the resulting snowfall will drop precipitously.”
“Then give me your coat.” Olivia said. “I can help. I’m an agent.”
“Not that kind of agent,” Ian reminded her. He was rewarded with a narrow-eyed glare.
Black held up a hand
. “Such was not the mission. If you do not return to your mother’s side post haste, Lady Olivia, there’s no hope you ever will be. You broke protocol. Disobeyed direct orders.”
Elizabeth piped up in her defense. “That’s Lady Rathsburn to you, Mr. Black.”
“Oh?” Black’s eyebrows rose. “Is it now?”
Olivia lifted her chin. “I improvised, as any good agent would do. Lord Rathsburn was abandoning ship. Traveling out of range. I was able to assist you from the inside by stowing away upon his airship then later posing as his wife.”
“Posing?” Elizabeth gaped. “You’re not truly married?”
Glancing from Olivia to Ian, Black threw his head back and laughed. The next words that burst from his lips were in an unfamiliar language. Not that a translation was necessary.
“He has proposed.” Olivia’s face flamed as she jabbed Black in the chest with an index finger. “No more such comments about the man I love.”
The man she loved. His heart flipped in his chest, then slammed against his rib cage, pounding in triumph. Pulling her to his side, he brushed a finger over the side of her face and whispered, “You have my heart as well.”
An entire future stretched before them, but only if he could pry the osforare apparatus from Katerina’s hands. Bone deep, he knew she possessed it. That Zheng would attempt to claim it for his own.
“Enough,” Black said. “Time to act. We need to depart, as does Rathsburn.” He handed Ian a compass and rattled off a number of coordinates. “That’s the border crossing. We can wait a few hours, no more.”
Ian nodded. He took a step backward, turning toward the woods.
“I’m coming with you.” Olivia wrapped a hand around his arm.
“You can’t,” Ian said. “Katerina views you as a prize to be won, and she would not hesitate to use you against me.” He pried her hand free. “Besides, as you yourself pointed out, you’re not trained in weaponry or self-defense of any kind.”
