by Zoë Archer
The men sitting beside Denisov scrambled out of the way as he stalked from the table. Leaving Daphne alone.
Was that it? One word from the Man O’ War and her mission was over before it had truly begun?
She jumped to her feet and hurried after him. Given that he cleared a path through the tavern—people scuttling out of his way—she followed in his wake. Before he could reach the door, she jumped in front of him. Thank goodness he stopped walking, or else he would have rolled right over her like a tetrol-powered plow. Thank goodness, too, that she was desperate, or else the glower he gave her might have sent her scurrying for cover behind the bar.
“Captain Denisov, please—”
“Smuggling contraband Chinese automatons into the Kingdom of Brazil,” he growled. “Liberating treasure from lead-lined vaults on behalf of wealthy clients. Those are the sorts of jobs I take on. Not some miniscule errand.”
“There is nothing miniscule about saving my parents’ lives,” she shot back.
He crossed his arms over his chest, the substantial muscles of his biceps knotting. “Profit motivates me, zaika. Nothing else.”
“You’d be compensated for your efforts.”
“Not enough to make it worth my while. Since I’ve gone rogue, I stay well away from political pandemonium like the one in Arabia.”
“As a rogue, doesn’t that mean you aren’t affiliated with any government? You have freedom to go where others cannot.”
“The Russian Imperial Aerial Navy considers me a traitor against the tsar,” he countered. “A thief, too, for stealing the Bielyi Voron. Any Russian Man O’ War who finds and captures me is assured glory. They’ll certainly be in Arabia, which means I won’t be going there.”
He set one massive hand on her shoulder. Though she wore a thick twill jacket, a cotton blouse, and chemise, his touch burned right through all her garments, as if he placed his hand upon her bare skin. Her heartbeat stuttered.
His brows lowered, as though this simple touch affected him just as strongly. With his hand still on her shoulder, he guided her out of his path, like a lion nudging aside a cub. He took his hand away, yet she noticed how he rubbed his fingers together afterward—either remembering or erasing the feel of her.
“Find someone else to help you,” he said.
She blurted, “Come with me back to my pensione.”
That teasing smile was back in place. “Changed your mind about the fun, zaika? Man O’ Wars have a great deal of stamina.”
“Just … come with me.” She turned and hurried outside before her cheeks went up in flames. The salty night air did little to calm her or cool her face, but she took several deep breaths, steadying herself. A moment passed as she stood alone in the street. Then she heard Denisov’s heavy steps on the pavement behind her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
She walked toward her pensione, passing sailors and peddlers and men in front of tatty velvet curtains, hawking the latest in mechanized pleasure. She ignored the catcalls and exhortations thrown her way, her mind focused only on Denisov as he followed her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed him moving through the gaslight and shadows, trailing after her with deliberate intent. He kept a distance between them, as though purposefully preserving the illusion that she led the chase. If he had wanted to, he could have caught up with her in a few strides. But the space between them only heightened the sense that he toyed with her.
The pensione was a tottering three-story building, paint and plaster chipping from its façade. There were finer places to stay in Palermo along the more genteel stretch of waterfront, grand hotels with jeweled mechanical peacocks strutting through their vast gardens, but she hadn’t the funds for them. Briefly, she wondered if she ought to have taken a room there, to better indicate to Denisov that she had more than enough money. Too late now.
She took her key from the smirking signora at the desk. The woman’s smirk faltered when she caught sight of Denisov striding through the doorway. Daphne felt the heat of him as he stood behind her. The signora glanced back and forth between Daphne and the Man O’ War, and new respect gleamed in her eyes.
Daphne ignored the rattling, steam-powered elevator—it would be impossible to squeeze both herself and Denisov into that narrow metal box—and climbed the three flights of stairs to her room. As she unlocked her door, she caught the unmistakable sounds of a couple enjoying themselves in the room across the hall.
Denisov’s chuckle rippled over her as she fumbled with her key. The door finally swung open. She stepped inside and switched on the gaslights.
He shut the door behind them. They were alone together.
Turning to face him, her heart beat faster than it had from the three-story climb. Her room was far from lavish, just big enough to contain a rickety table, a lamp, a dresser with a mirror hanging over it, and a bed. Denisov filled the chamber, not merely with his size, but his presence. With his hair, his coat, his very essence, he seemed a creature from the depths of dreams.
“I’m glad you changed your mind, lapochka.” His smile was unalloyed wickedness as he stepped closer. He ran one finger along the side of her neck, sending electrical sparks through her. “I admit, you’re not my usual sort, but then, I doubt I’m your typical choice.”
“That’s not … why I brought you here.” A curious reluctance tore at her as she pulled away. She hurried around the side of the bed, then knelt on the dusty floor. Reaching beneath the bed, she felt for a handle. Her fingers closed around it, and she tugged. Hard.
She dragged the strongbox out from beneath the bed. Muscles straining with the effort, she hefted the metal box and set it down upon the coverlet. The container itself wasn’t particularly large—the size of the tea caddy her mother used to take on digs so that she could enjoy her favorite beverage even in the field. But what this strongbox contained was far more valuable than Darjeeling tea.
Denisov watched her, his expression only mildly interested.
She entered a combination into the strongbox’s keypad, her fingers flying over the enameled numeric buttons. There was a hiss as the brass locking system unbolted. She lifted the lid.
“Blyat,” Denisov cursed.
A row of four gold ingots lay like gleaming soldiers within the strongbox. A modest fortune.
“This is half the payment,” Daphne said. “You’ll receive the other half after I’m taken to Arabia and my parents are freed.”
He picked up one of the gold bars. Tested its weight in his hand, even giving the ingot a little toss into the air before catching it. Still, he wasn’t satisfied, not until he scraped the gold bar across the surface of the mirror. It left no scratch upon the glass.
Turning back to her, he asked, “Where did you get this gold?”
“Does it matter?”
He thought about it for a moment. “No.”
“As I said, all that is yours, if you’ll agree to fly me to Arabia. To the city of Medinat al-Kadib, specifically. That’s where I’m supposed to meet al-Rahim’s emissary.”
Setting the ingot down beside the others, he said in a deceptively light voice, “A big chance you’ve taken, zaika—”
“Daphne Carlisle,” she cut in. “Of the Accademia delle Arti e della Cultura in Florence.”
“Ah, a professorsha.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Learned lady, what’s to stop me from just taking this gold now?”
She eyed him, from the tip of his outrageous hair to the toes of his boots. “Nothing. Save the promise of more, if you fulfill your end of the bargain.”
“Clever, Miss Carlisle, to use my greed against me.” Yet he smiled as he said this.
“So,” she pressed, “will you do it?”
She didn’t know what she’d do if he said no. Tracking him down had been a Herculean effort, and if, by some miracle, she was able to find another rogue Man O’ War willing to take on the task, it would likely be too late. She doubted al-Rahim would keep her parents alive indefinitely.
Finally, he exhaled.
“My ship is anchored off of Capo Zafferano,” he said. “We leave at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there.” Relief and trepidation fought for dominance inside her chest. “I wouldn’t be averse to departing tonight.”
“But my crew would. We’ve been on the move for weeks, and I promised them leave.”
Considerate, despite the fact that it meant his crew were drinking and whoring all over Palermo. Doubtless the captain was intent on doing the same when she approached him in the tavern. Well, the night was hardly over. So long as he’s at his ship tomorrow morning, I don’t care what he does between now and then.
He moved to take the strongbox. She quickly shut the lid, the brass bolts inside sliding back into place. He flicked a glance toward her, one full of amused forbearance. Right. Doubtless he could smash the strongbox into fragments, regardless of its state-of-the-art security system.
Still, she said, “I’ll bring it with me tomorrow. To ensure that you wait for me.”
“Most women aren’t worth waiting for.”
“Neither are most men,” she answered. “But, we’re both rather exceptional.”
He laughed, the sound as rich and deep as a summer night. Then he strode to the door and opened it. Daphne was relieved to note that the couple across the hall had concluded their endeavors.
Pausing at the doorway, Denisov said, “This is going to be a very interesting job, professorsha.”
“I don’t want it to be interesting, Captain Denisov. I only want it to be successful. My parents’ lives depend on it.”
At the mention of her parents, the Man O’ War snorted, then turned and paced down the hall. He rattled the floorboards with each step. As soon as his footfalls faded, she hurried over and shut the door. Locked it, for good measure. Leaning against the door, she let out a long, shaking breath.
I’ve just made a deal with the telumium-enhanced Devil.
Chapter Two
* * *
MIKHAIL STOOD UPON the rocky shoreline, his face to the sun. Aquamarine water lapped at the beach, and a dog trotted along the edge of the sea, pausing to nose at bits of debris that had washed ashore. Pretty little villas dotted the hills overlooking the bay. The air was warm and mild. A perfect day for lying in the sunshine and drinking grappa, with a few lush, golden-skinned Sicilian women to keep him company.
Instead, he was about to fly off into risky skies for one freckled, narrow-hipped Englishwoman.
“She’s late,” muttered Levkov, standing beside him.
“Your timepiece is fast,” Mikhail said. “Or broken.” He glanced up at the sky. “It will be nine o’clock in ten minutes.”
Levkov ran a kerchief over the shining dome of his bald head. “The time doesn’t matter. What matters is that this job is a mistake.”
“Good thing we’re old friends, Piotr Romanovich,” Mikhail murmured, “or else I’d throw you into the sea for contradicting your captain.”
Levkov grumbled something under his breath that Mikhail decided to consider an apology.
“Besides,” Mikhail continued, “it’s not a mistake when the woman in question will pay us a tsar’s ransom in gold.” Perhaps it wasn’t a tsar’s ransom. More like a tsarevitch’s ransom, but it was still more than Mikhail’s crew had been paid in a long while. Smuggling those contraband tetrol processors into Oceania hadn’t been as profitable as Mikhail had wanted, because the client turned out to have bigger promises than pockets.
“All the gold in the sodding world won’t matter if we’ve got the navy up our bungholes.”
“Then we’ll just have to keep our bungholes clean.” His acute hearing caught the sounds of a distant wagon approaching. “She’ll be here in five minutes.”
Sure enough, five minutes later, a smoke-spewing wagon appeared at the top of the road running past the beach. A boy sat at the wheel, and another young man sat beside him.
Mikhail frowned. He could’ve sworn that Miss Daphne Carlisle was nearing, as if a strange, other sense had told him that she was nearby. The same sense that had made him aware of her the moment she’d entered the tavern last night. Apparently, that perception had deserted him this morning. But as the wagon bounced nearer, he saw that the young man in the vehicle was Daphne Carlisle. She’d traded her stiff traveling clothes for a short leather jacket and pair of trousers tucked into tall, laced boots. The wagon came to a stop a few yards away, and Miss Carlisle jumped down, revealing just how snug her trousers were, and what an unexpectedly pretty round arse she had.
“Fuck your sister,” Levkov muttered as she struggled to get her trunk down from the back of the wagon. The boy at the wheel offered no assistance. “The Englishwoman didn’t look like that last night.”
“I do like surprises,” Mikhail said.
“No, you don’t.”
“I like this surprise.” He strode to the wagon and plucked the trunk from the bed of the vehicle, then hoisted it onto his shoulder.
Miss Carlisle’s moss green eyes widened, and he realized that she didn’t have much experience with Man O’ Wars, to find his strength so surprising. It had taken him nearly a year to get used to it himself.
Taking the opportunity to see her by daylight, he noted the sharp point of her chin, the fullness of her bottom lip, rose-colored in the morning sun, and the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose that were suggestive instead of girlish.
“I didn’t know captains also offered luggage service,” she said. Last night, she’d worn her light brown hair in a tight bun, but today she’d braided it, and the plait hung down between her shoulder blades. What might it look like if the braid was undone? Would her hair be curly or straight? Coarse or soft?
He suspected it would be soft, like satin against his fingers.
“We don’t,” he said. “But I don’t want to watch you fight your baggage for half the day.”
Saying nothing, she climbed into the bed of the wagon to retrieve her strongbox. It afforded him another fine opportunity to look at her figure. Her curves weren’t generous, but they were definitely there, and she moved with an unexpected energy. But then, he had seen her neatly trip the drunkard accosting her at the tavern, so she possessed some skill. Perhaps she didn’t spend all of her time in dusty university libraries.
Hefting the strongbox, she caught him staring. He only smiled at her glare.
Awkward beneath the weight of the metal box, she struggled to alight from the wagon.
“Happy to alleviate your burden,” he said.
“Of that, I’ve no doubt.” She grunted with effort as she clambered down. The moment her feet touched the ground, the wagon trundled away, coughing black smoke into the pure Mediterranean sky.
Levkov lumbered toward them.
“This ugly bastard is Levkov, my first mate,” Mikhail said to her. “You need anything during the voyage, you go to him.”
She eyed Levkov, who returned the look balefully. “I’m sure I’ll be self-sufficient.” She glanced around the bay. “You said your airship was anchored here.”
He started walking down the rocky beach. “It’s inland, near Ficuzza. Less visible.”
“So, you weren’t telling me the truth.” She hurried after him as fast as she could, which wasn’t fast at all, given that she carried a strongbox containing four bars of gold. Levkov followed, muttering.
“Wanted to make sure you weren’t laying a trap for me.”
“I’d never … do … such a thing.” Her words were breathless with strain.
“Sure you don’t want me to carry that for you?”
She threw him a look that answered his question. Then, “How are we supposed to get to your ship? Ficuzza is miles from here, and the wagon’s gone.”
“The journey hasn’t even begun and you’re already que
stioning me.” He made a tsking sound, then nodded toward a jolly boat beached on the rocks. “There’s our transportation.”
“Ficuzza is inland.”
“So it is.” He set her trunk down in the jolly boat.
“This is a boat.”
“Right again.” Both he and Levkov climbed in and sat down on the planks that formed the seats, Mikhail by the tiller. “Get in.”
He saw the moment she realized that the jolly boat was, in fact, hovering several inches off the ground. Her gaze moved to the brass-cased ether tank mounted on the aft of the vessel and the small turbine affixed to the stern.
“I’ve seen ether-borne patrol gliders,” she said, climbing in with effort then setting the strongbox at her feet, “but never a boat like this.”
“Strap yourself in.” He fastened a harness across his lap. “I like to go fast.”
“That comes as no surprise.” She did as he instructed, then pulled a pair of goggles from her jacket’s inside pocket and set them in place on her face.
“You were confident I’d agree to take you to Medinat al-Kadib.” He tugged on the goggles that hung around his neck, and Levkov did the same.
Though the goggles partially hid her face, he could see the sharp determination in her gaze. “My only option is success.”
Resolve—he had to credit her with that. As slight as she was, she had a will as hard as forged steel.
“Buckled in?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “Good. Hang on.”
He flipped a few switches, and the jolly boat rose up into the sky. Her gasp of surprise was caught upon the wind, but he heard it, just as he heard her murmurs of wonderment as he steered the boat high above the blue waters of the bay, and then inland. They flew over the white and green rocky hills, the little villages that at that height looked like illustrations from a child’s picture book, the narrow ribbons of road.
For years, he’d known the sky. He knew what the world looked like from so high up. The first time he’d flown, he’d thought himself in the middle of his best boyhood dream. The intervening years had dulled that sense of wonder.
