by Landra Graf
“So you’re for the kaiser then?”
She shook her head. “Never. I despise politics and prefer to steer clear. Better to stay in the skies and be free.”
“You call this freedom?” He looked around the room. Sure, her personal touches were there, but they didn’t make the cabin feel like home to him. “This is a place to hide.”
Walking over to the door, she dislodged the balisong. “You may call it that, but, as for me, I’ve never been more content.”
Turning, she angled her hand, the movement subtle, but strong enough to send one of the balisong handles flying, the blade dancing in the air. Half a second later, the blade was still, cradled and secure between the two handle pieces.
His jaw dropped at her precision with a weapon so small, but so deadly. It reminded him of her. He snapped his mouth shut as she raised her head and speared him with those perceptive eyes.
He met her stare, saying, “If we leave immediately, we can get there in two days.”
“Two? More like three.” Her skepticism surprised him.
“I thought this ship was fast.”
She laughed. “It is, but you need wind to get there, too. Even if I had all the power in the world, the breeze is at a standstill. Unless we catch a current, which is entirely possible once we get over the Atlantic—”
A clanging bell from the upper deck echoed through the ship. Bastille burst through the cabin door. “Captain, a German Inspection Patrol has hailed us and is preparing to board.”
Great. He looked at Castoa, trying to gauge her reaction. She slipped her jacket back on and secured her balisong in its sheath. “Secure Tuul and keep him quiet. I’ll handle the inspection.” She grabbed a small satchel of papers and stormed from the room.
“Follow me,” Bastille said, and Ian had no choice but to trail along. If Luther desired Tuul, no doubt the German authorities wanted him, too.
***
The inspectors had already boarded by the time she got to the main deck. One man harassed her helmsman, waving an electo wand around and demanding papers.
“Herr Inspector,” she called out, extending her leather pouch with all the documentation about Liberté and her ownership. If anyone looked closely, they’d know the papers were fake like her name and the clothes she wore. Still, she resisted the urge to fidget or tug on the scarf she used to wrap her braids. The martial arts trainers had beaten those inclinations out of her years ago. She’d faced more difficult challenges, from slogging through a mud-filled pit with all manner of deadly things to practicing with her knives until the cuts on her hands rivaled the indentations on her practice board.
“I’m called Dietrich. Frau Castoa?” Her name came out butchered and chopped like a pig at the slaughter. The inspector rifled through the papers, not even casting a glance in her direction.
“Ja.”
“Do you know anything about a man called Herr Heim?”
I killed him thirty minutes ago. “I’m not familiar with the name.”
“No?” Dietrich looked up from the papers, his beady eyes locked on hers. His bushy blonde mustache twitched as he spoke. “Then why was he spotted boarding your ship?”
The bartender probably reported them. The body rested below decks, being disfigured as quickly and quietly as possible.
“I’m not sure, though we did speak with a man about a job. Didn’t catch his name, but he went on his way not long ago.”
“Indeed. Did he say where he was headed?”
Sorella shook her head. “No, he did not.”
“And you didn’t think to familiarize yourself with a man with whom you might do business?”
“Not when his business isn’t going to be profitable for me and mine.”
Two other inspectors charged through the door under the helm’s deck to search the cabins and every other nook and cranny. The kaiser’s men told as many lies as anyone else. The truth was rare these days, and everyone, at one time or another, possessed the moniker of thief.
“Are we likely to find any undocumented cargo aboard?” A high eyebrow accompanied the question.
She shrugged. “Like I mentioned, we’ve been searching for work. There’s no cargo beyond our own belongings and food to feed my crew.”
Minutes ticked by as they waited. The unspoken rule when inspectors boarded airships was that the captain had to stay on the upper ship deck with the lead inspector until the official search or seizure was completed. A captain’s attempt to leave the deck implied guilt, and then the men took twice as long searching. Usually, they’d claim a ship was carrying black market goods even if no evidence existed then seize the ship along with the crew, sending them to who knew where.
Sorella and her crew had heard whispers of work camps where men and women labored on various projects—making weapons or digging tunnels—but she refused to put weight behind such thoughts. Instead, she maintained a cool, calm demeanor through deep breathing while the search went on although she turned her back once and hastily crossed herself. Even bad Catholics still prayed in moments of dire distress, and this counted as one.
Forever and a day seemed to pass until both men returned to the top deck along with Bastille, who stood behind them. They exchanged their findings with Dietrich, a few whispered remarks, no items were presented, and then the inspector spoke.
“There’s a man in your brig. Your crewmen in the room said he’d been put there for insubordination. Yet this man and another in the brig do not meet your original crew count listed here.” He waved the papers at her.
If this turned bad, they’d slit throats and make a quick getaway. Nordberg would join the list of towns to avoid in the future.
Hopefully, these men were easily convinced. “That’s because they’re new recruits. Joined my crew less than a day ago. We hightailed it here for a job, and I haven’t had a chance to update the paperwork.”
The inspector glanced at the other crewmen on deck, sweeping, hauling, and scrubbing through their work. He wouldn’t bother corroborating her statement because everyone on board would agree with the captain or face hunger. Food proved a precious commodity on land. On a ship, food was guaranteed to all who worked for it.
He eyed her again, taking in all of her this time, head to toe. “The man in the brig already caused trouble?”
“You should know yourself that townspeople, drunkards, and drifters aren’t familiar with the strenuous work aboard a ship. They tend to believe it’ll be as it once was for them.”
“Ja.” He nodded. “All’s good, then, except my men noticed your meat is not hanging but lying flat. I’d recommend you hoist everything off the floor, or it could spoil. You don’t want to risk running out of food. Update your paperwork at an airship station as soon as possible. Others are not inclined to be so lenient.”
“Danke, Herr Dietrich.” The native Deutsch rolled off her tongue instead of the spit she’d love to hurl at his boots. Thankfully, the inspectors had believed Heim’s body to be food and not disposal. Pure luck. Somehow the Liberté still had some.
The German departure lifted the mood immediately, as if everyone on board had been holding their breath the entire time.
“Where’s Ian?” She’d keep her momentary weakness, the small part of her that worried about the merchant being hauled away, to herself.
“He’s in the brig with Tuul.”
“That’s a bit dangerous.” Sorella headed for the lower deck.
“I don’t think so, Captain. When the inspectors asked, I’m afraid I didn’t have a good reason for the extra men. The bounty hunter came up with the same reasoning you did. Like twin minds.” Bastille followed her, their brisk march getting them to the brig in record time.
She stayed silent. Her first mate’s defense of a man she wanted to kill and at the same time embrace was disconcerting. Slamming the door open, she entered to find Ian leaning against the far wall, one foot propped up against the steel and wood beam behind hi
m.
“Are they gone?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?” Wait, had she really said that? A glance at Bastille and his downturned lips told her she’d been flirting. Not captain-like behavior, and not like her. The merchant seemed to expect it though. He approached her in measured steps, slow and deliberate like the metronome used to help her control her speed when she was in training.
“I’d say you’re trying to spook me.”
Her skin went hot. Maybe this was something akin to blushing or, worse, maybe she’d contracted a fever. His words made her feel like the woman she’d been before the escape, before she’d left home in search of her brother and The Cursed. She’d been trained to navigate the upper echelons of societies, to live among royals. It’d be a lie to say she didn’t miss the flirtations, the banter, and the niceties of her former life.
“I know better ways to scare you.” Targeting her anger at him, she found the courage to look this man in the eye, to push past the sliver of desire he’d awakened in her.
“How?” His question hung provocatively, a whisper in the air. He stood less than six inches from her. Before he could blink his eyes, she’d reached for a balisong, opened it, and placed the knife tip near his groin. He gulped. “That’ll do it.” It’d be a lie to say she didn’t enjoy having this man at her mercy.
She turned to Bastille, keeping the knife in position. “Let the helmsman know we sail for New Orleans immediately. The map to the city is on my desktop for reference.”
“Aye, Captain. What about Heim?”
“We’ll ditch the body once we’re over the open Atlantic. Let the sharks have him.”
The first mate nodded and left to execute her orders. No questions, just action. Why couldn’t this man under her blade do the same?
She pulled back slowly, watching Ian’s facial expression as the hint of fear in his eyes was replaced with confidence as soon as she tucked the balisong in its sheath. He liked to appear tougher than he truly was. She respected his approach.
“You will provide my helmsman with information about the location you intend to take us to. When we arrive, I will accompany you.”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too quick to kill people. Doing something drastic to any Howl at the Moon club member of Janken’s will get your whole crew murdered before we leave port.”
His lack of confidence in her crew wounded her a bit. As for her penchant for killing, she wouldn’t deny enjoying the feel of her blades sinking into flesh, the feel of steel punching through the first layer of skin and finding purchase in an organ or a piece of tough muscle. Even imagining it brought goose bumps to her arms. Especially when those who were on the receiving end were part of the gang who’d kidnapped her brother, or anyone who wanted to harm innocents.
“How about I promise to wait until your signal to kill someone?” He also didn’t know who she truly was.
“How about I go with Bastille?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No, you’ll be going with me. I won’t discuss the matter further.”
“Fine, then,” he growled.
Having awakened from his nap on the brig cot, Tuul laughed like a hyena. “Looks like someone doesn’t like it when the bloody she-bitch cuts him off by the balls with little more than words. Let me out, toffer, and I’ll put her in the right place for you.”
She ignored him. He’d get his soon enough.
But Ian motioned for her to follow him into the hall, and she did, out of sheer curiosity. Once away from Tuul’s view, he smiled, a bright smile that lit up his green eyes and made him seem younger. “I’ll take you with me, but only if you agree to a wager.”
“I don’t wager.”
“Not even for the opportunity of a lifetime?” He winked.
This man had to possess female admirers in every port as mercenary he was with his charms and fair looks. “All right, what’s the wager?”
“If you take a life in New Orleans, you have to kiss me.”
“Why on earth would you want that?”
He laughed then, the full-bodied laugh, so different from their captive’s. One that spoke of someone familiar with happy memories. “You kill people with small knives, escape jail cells, captain a ship, and are smaller than any person manning such a ship. Who wouldn’t want to say they’ve gotten a kiss from you?”
The blush stole into her cheeks again. She had deliberately kept her face dirty, her hair bundled up so no one would know or admire its length, and still this man seemed to want her. As an assassin, she should say no, keep the control in her favor, but the girl inside, the one who grew up too soon, wanted this one moment of fun, this one chance to experience a game, a lark. She’d beat him, of course.
She thrust her hand out. “It’s a bet.”
Chapter Four
Three days passed with little excitement. Ian found himself settling into life aboard ship; the ebb and flow of the crew working to keep the vessel moving and in good repair, the lighthearted banter among crew members, Bonita’s hearty meals prepared with few ingredients and tons of flavor, and the little to no presence of a certain captain beyond her recurring role in his nightly dreams. In those dreams, her long braids were unbound, hair fanned out across his bed as she begged for his touch.
When he’d awakened this morning, he’d had no choice but to take himself in hand and relieve the tension. It’d been a long time since the mere thought of a woman had brought him to such a state. The fact that he’d failed to control his desire made him long for New Orleans. He was even a bit eager for the dreaded conversation with Janken in the hopes she’d fail to control her bloodlust, and he’d win the bet. He truly was a sick man, willing to sacrifice a life for a chance at getting a kiss. How far the landowner’s son had fallen.
Now he stood on deck, waiting for the clouds to clear away as the Liberté began its descent into his hometown. He’d spent his childhood on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain and his early teens making a name for his merchant wares in the French Quarter streets. His ability to get black market goods, items unavailable anywhere else, from The Cursed had made him infamous and positioned him to hit the major markets…until the day he’d been figuratively stabbed in the back by the one woman who’d promised to support him in all things.
“My cook says you’re from here.” As she took a spot next to him at the ship’s bow, the captain’s maddening gardenia scent gave her away before her words were uttered.
“You speak Italian.”
“Si, signore.” She gave a half bow and a hand flourish for good measure. “I was born in Italy. Bonita also speaks English.”
He stared. “You’re joking.” The woman had interacted with him every morning and spoken little or not at all. Any words she had shared were in Italian, and he had only understood half of them.
“I’m not.”
He scoffed. “Well, at least she understands every word I say.”
“She likes you.”
The captain’s covered arm brushed against his coat. For a second, he wished they were two people meeting on the street. He’d take her to Café Du Monde for beignets and a café au lait treat, But they weren’t ordinary people.
The clouds cleared then, and the blue lake appeared, distinct against the surrounding swamps. The city seemed smaller, but he caught a glimpse of transport barges starting the trek up the Mississippi. Fishing and transport boats dotted the bay like grains of rice.
“I’ve talked with Bastille, and I’m familiar with the location you’ve outlined. How should we portray ourselves?”
Again the captain’s question startled him out of memories, some bittersweet and others too precious to forget. “I’m known throughout the city, but will have to go by another name. Merely refer to me as Merchant if you must call me something.”
“Are you marked?”
“Yes, I’m wanted by
the New Orleans authority. I’ve been identified as a threat to American Normalcy.” Such a label was given to any person who engaged in black market trade, skin trading, or the sinful ways of Europe.
“Ha. You’re not dangerous.”
“To be marked in this country doesn’t mean you have to be dangerous. You only have to do something they don’t like.”
“What did you do?”
“Trusted a woman.” Ian longed to take back the bitter words as soon as they left his mouth. Yet, he spoke truth.
Surprisingly, the captain didn’t seem offended. “You’re not the first fool to be taken in by a woman, and you won’t be the last. What else do I need to know?”
Sorella turned the conversation, hoping to quash her flash of jealousy and her desire for revenge against the woman who’d hurt Ian. How easy it was to get caught up in the stiff set of his shoulders or the narrowing eyes honing in on the city that had spurned him. Her crew and purpose required that her emotions be disengaged like a good assassin. Yet he’d quickly become a part of her crew, the people she’d sworn to protect. He’d ingratiated himself with Bonita, the technicians, who were always searching for new jokes, and even Bastille, who seemed to enjoy his fun-loving nature.
“The best way to interact with Janken is to remain silent, and, if you can, cover those teeth. If he sees those perfect teeth, we’ll be fighting every person on his payroll. I want to win my bet fair and square, not by baiting.”
She’d forgotten about flashing her smile. She showed it rarely and only on occasions when she had some incentive. “I’ll black them out.”
“Good. Though Janken’s not a bad musician, jazz is his secondary profession. First and foremost, Janken is a hardcore skin trader. He will also want to trade for information. We have to give him something good. Do you have any information to trade?”
A million thoughts flitted through her head. Locations of safe houses scattered throughout Europe. Names of those in the kaiser’s inner circles, but not advertised openly. She finally settled on the one piece of information that would benefit anyone in a black market and secret trading business. “I do.”
