Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles

by Zoë Archer

  She stepped even closer to him, so only a few inches separated them. Wariness shone in her eyes, and uncertainty. Slowly, she reached out, testing the distance.

  Her hand pressed against his chest, causing his pulse to race, and she looked up at him with warmth and sadness. “Damn it, Mikhail,” she sighed. “For someone who can spot treasure at a hundred feet, you’re remarkably shortsighted when it comes to yourself.”

  With her other hand, she traced along the line of his jaw. “You do have a heart, one I’m helplessly drawn to, but you keep it protected behind something far stronger than telumium.”

  He felt his heart now, throbbing inside his chest, as if it was striving for something. For her.

  “I don’t know if I can ask for forgiveness for something I felt I had to do,” she continued. “But I hate that I hurt you in the process. And put your life in danger many times. If I could take that back, I would.”

  These weren’t palliative words, thrown carelessly to win him to her side. He heard the truth in her voice, read the honesty in her eyes. No one had ever offered him so much, and it shook him. Down to his core.

  He ached with wanting more, and he feared it. Risks. He’d spent his life with them. In his youth, he hadn’t cared about consequence, plowing ahead with regard for nothing and no one, least of all himself. But time and circumstance changed a man. He was far more wary now than he’d ever been … knowing the damage that could be done with a misstep. But if he stayed just as he was, incapable of movement, he’d rust like one of those useless ships in the harbor, a corroded carcass.

  What she offered him now … They both knew it couldn’t last. There’d be more wounds, more suffering. Yet to turn away would mean denying himself, and her, the bright world they created together. Even if only for a short while.

  He leaned down, his hands curving around her waist. A flare of pleasure lit her eyes as she stretched up on the very tips of her toes, and slid her hands behind his neck. Their mouths came together.

  The taste of her lips was sweet, the feel of her against him sweeter. He and Daphne clung close, taking and giving, their kisses open and demanding. He quickly undid her braid, letting her hair spill around her shoulders.

  It had been only a day since last they’d kissed. Too long. She was silk and strength, his audacious scholar, and he wanted every part of her.

  Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her to his bunk. Fortunately, he’d gotten rid of the narrow standard-issue naval bed, replacing it with something much larger and more accommodating. Only a few hours remained until the dawn. He was determined not to waste them.

  But when he laid her down upon the bed and stretched out beside her, ready to touch her everywhere, he sensed something unexpected. Trembling. She actually shook, very slightly, but enough for him to sense.

  She was afraid.

  Her fear pierced him. He stroked gently along her cheek and down her neck. “I didn’t hurt you before, and I swear I never will.”

  Her eyes widened. “God, no. That’s not …” She shook her head, her hair rustling against the pillow. “It’s tomorrow that worries me. If something happens to you ... I’ve lost and gained you so many times. What this is,” she said, glancing down at their intertwined bodies, “is so much more real because of that. But I could lose you all over again tomorrow.” Her fingers trailed along his neck.

  He didn’t want to point out that she was far more vulnerable than he would ever be. Yet at that moment, her words disarmed him. She was concerned about him. As more than the captain of an airship, or the means to secure her parents’ freedom. Him, as a man. Apprehension and tenderness brimmed in her eyes. How long had it been since anyone looked at him that way? Maybe no one ever had.

  “Takes a lot to bring down a Man O’ War,” he said. “We’re built for battle.”

  “Maybe so, but the battle tomorrow is going to be huge. Even with Khalida and her warriors helping us, the odds are so steep. We’re facing not just al-Rahim and his hundreds of warriors, but two other Man O’ Wars.”

  He felt his jaw tighten. “Don’t worry about Olevski.”

  “Like you said, there’s no such thing as an innocuous Man O’ War.”

  “He’s a dangerous bastard, that’s certain. But I will defeat him.”

  Propping herself up on her elbows, she gazed intently at Mikhail. “You say his name like a curse.”

  “I used to curse him every day, with every breath.” Mikhail felt his mouth twist into a cold smile. “He’s the reason I went rogue.”

  THE BED SHIFTED as Mikhail rose from it. Daphne stared at the broad width of his back, feeling the tension pouring from him in cold, unseen waves.

  “Olevski and I were at the naval academy together,” he said, his voice flat. “Didn’t like each other at first—we were both arrogant bastards—but soon we became close as brothers. He didn’t have any family, so on holidays I used to bring him home with me. They welcomed him with open arms. He loved being a part of my family—teasing my mother, playing cards with my father. He truly became like a brother to me. And when he started courting my sister Irina, everyone was happy.”

  “Neither of you were Man O’ Wars yet, I take it,” she said quietly.

  “No, but when Olevski and me were both selected for the transformation, everyone in my family was overjoyed. Irina was disappointed she wouldn’t be a mother, but she was willing to sacrifice that for him. So, Olevski and I underwent the procedure, became Man O’ Wars, and flew off for promised glory. Irina vowed to wait for him.”

  He strode to the cabinet and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolding the cloth, he held up a military sash, medals arrayed like proud troops. When he spoke, his voice was edged, icy. “The fruits of my labors for the Russian Imperial Navy. Olevski has one just like it. We’d wear them to official functions, galas. They’d give us new medals like handing out candy, but we earned every one. Fearless, the Admiralty called us. Or maybe we were just stupid and arrogant.” He shook his head. “Didn’t matter. All that mattered was that we were the pride of the navy, so they sent us both to Italy, to see if we couldn’t pummel the Italians into submission. It seemed perfect, that my adoptive brother and I should go into battle together.”

  He continued to study the sash, but he didn’t seem to see the ribbons or bits of polished metal and enamel.

  “We fought a few battles, knocked some enemies out of the sky. A grand old time. Then Olevski told me there was a cache of gold in the Italian Alps. The Hapsburgs were sending ground troops to retrieve the gold, but Olevski had a better idea. He and I would take the gold for ourselves. One half for me, one half for him and Irina.”

  “But the Hapsburgs are allied with Russia,” she noted. “You would’ve been stealing from your own allies.”

  His wide shoulders lifted in a shrug, but he wouldn’t look at her. “The Hapsburgs wouldn’t know. An easy trick: Olevski planned to plant evidence, evidence that’d make it look as though Dr. Rossini and her rogue Man O’ Wars took the gold. No one’s ally, the mad doctor. So easy for anyone to believe she’d be the one stealing the gold. Olevski and I were going to be rich, and nobody’d be the wiser.”

  Dread settled in her stomach. It was clear that Mikhail hadn’t rejected Olevski’s scheme.

  “Things didn’t play out quite as you and Olevski had planned it, though,” she surmised.

  A humorless laugh rattled in Mikhail’s chest. “They did—at first. Not difficult for two Man O’ Wars to break through one Alpine fortress’s defenses. He and I went in on foot, to keep it fast and keep it quiet. We slid in, knocked out the security, and grabbed the gold. I gathered up as much as I could carry, and that’s when I heard it. A sharp clicking noise. The sound of an ether pistol being cocked. I turned around, and Olevski had an ether pistol pointed right between my eyes.”

  “Oh, God,” she gulped. The story continued to get more and more ugly.

  “He was practically my brother, was going to marry my sister, and that was how my
trust was repaid,” Mikhail said bitterly. “He even taunted me with it. Said he’d tell my family how I’d been killed in combat, and then he’d take over as favorite son. It’s what he’d wanted all along.”

  Sickness choked her. Olevski’s betrayal was horrifying, and it had to have been so much worse for Mikhail, who’d cared for his friend so deeply.

  And when she had deceived him … no wonder he’d been enraged.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “Threw a handful of coins at him.” He smiled cruelly. “Olevski could always be distracted by something shiny. His eye was on the gold, and that’s when I knocked the gun out of his hand. Then we did what all men do who betray each other. We brawled.”

  She could only imagine the awful spectacle of two Man O’ Wars fighting each other. Like something out of ancient legend, or a fable used to terrify children and nonbelievers. She must have made some noise of distress, because he sent her a bleak glance over his shoulder.

  “It got better,” he said sardonically. “Instead of foot troops, a fifty-gun Hapsburg airship showed up. Caught me and Olevski in possession of the gold—never mind the fact that we were beating the hell out of each other. That Hapsburg Man O’ War was surprised as hell. So-called allies were trying to steal the treasure out from under his telumium-enhanced nose. Pretty picture, isn’t it?”

  She wisely said nothing. Instead, she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, as if to shield herself from Mikhail’s sordid tale.

  He went on, as if purging long-held poison from his system. “Olevski and I were fucked. That much was clear. Whatever you think of Hapsburgs, they’re damned organized and follow the rules. The Hapsburg Man O’ War was sure to report what we were trying to do. Mother Russia would have to send their two fearless Man O’ Wars to forced labor at a katorga. Better that loss than risk the Hapsburg alliance.”

  “What happened?”

  “We fought the Hapsburg Man O’ War. Hoped to keep him from notifying the navy of our treachery.”

  Lord, if two Man O’ Wars in combat was a terrifying sight, she couldn’t begin to fathom what it must be like to witness three of the mechanized men clashing. The Alps must have shaken with the force of their blows.

  “Even with me and Olevski against the Hun,” Mikhail continued, “I saw the direction of the tide. A crime like the one we’d committed—there’d be no hiding that evidence. The Admiralty would find out, and then I’d spend the rest of my life mining lead in Siberia. So while Olevski and the Hapsburg were distracted and brawling, I broke off from the fight. Left the gold behind and just got the hell out of there.”

  His arms flexed, the muscles bunching, and the sash he held tore apart like so much tissue paper. He dropped the shreds to the ground, the medals making soft, sad pinging noises at they hit the floorboards, like the worthless bits of metal he thought them to be.

  “I consider that my third birthday. My first was when my mother pushed me out of her womb into this bitter world. The second, when my implants were grafted to me, turning me into a Man O’ War. And my third—”

  “The day you went rogue,” she whispered. The day his closest friend betrayed him.

  “Olevski survived the fight and turned rogue, too,” he said. “Took a year before I found out. My one solace was that he’d been as cast out from my family as I was. No marriage to Irina. No supplanting me as favorite son. And I hadn’t laid eyes on him until Medinat al-Kadib. I will again. Tomorrow. When I do”—his voice was obsidian—“only one of us will survive. And it’s not going to be him.”

  He turned back to face her, and the light from the quartz lamp carved him into unforgiving planes. “Think I still have a heart, professorsha?”

  “Of course you do,” she answered immediately.

  His mouth twisted. “Then you must be deaf, and didn’t hear a damned word I said. I’m not a virtuous, wronged hero.” He stalked to the window. “Don’t know much about chemistry, but someone like Olevski is called the catalyst. There’s one real culprit here: my greed. If I hadn’t agreed to steal the gold, none of this would have happened. But I did agree. It cost me everything. My position in the navy. My country. My friend.” His voice roughened. “My family.”

  “Mikhail—”

  He planted his hands on the window, coronas of heat forming where he touched the glass. “Greed’s all I have now. It’s the only thing I’ve got. My only motivation.”

  She rose up from the bed and approached him. Slowly. “What does your father do? As a profession.”

  He faced her, frowning slightly. “Paper shuffling. Works in the Ministry of Transportation.”

  “So, he never was in the navy?”

  “God, no. Can’t even watch the clockwork toy boats in the pond at the park without getting seasick.”

  “And any of your siblings? Were they ever sailors?”

  “Only me.” His brow lowered. “You’re leading me down a road, professorsha.”

  “I want to know why you joined the navy. Why you became a Man O’ War in the first place. The procedure was excruciating, so you said, and I believe you. There were huge risks involved. Yet you did it, anyway. Why’d you do any of it?”

  “Because …” He stared out at the sky and the dark sprawl of the desert beneath them, but it seemed as though he saw not this shadowy landscape, but the even more obscure one inside himself. “I wanted to help my country. Wanted to do good.” His gaze turned inward. “But war’s not what anyone expects. Not what I thought it would be. There’s glory, and heroism and courage. There’s blood, too,” he said, his voice hoarse, “and cruelty. Good men killed for no reason. Decisions made by admirals and generals in far-off rooms, never thinking of the human cost. Or worse, not caring.”

  Absently, he rubbed at his chest, over the telumium implant. “It … deadens you. Inside. When I was in the navy, I couldn’t remember what I was fighting for. Just moved from one battle to the next. One prize to the next. Rich English and Italian ships to capture and plunder. I was a mercenary before I even left the navy.”

  She saw it now, how the acquisition of things, of wealth, took the place of his idealism, and how that avarice ate away at him, transformed him. But not entirely.

  “There wasn’t much of a journey from decorated naval captain to actual rogue mercenary.” The hollowness in his gaze chilled her. “Whatever heroic role you’ve cast me in, I’ll never learn the lines. I can’t fit the costume.”

  She stepped between him and the window, and rested her cheek against his chest. Heat seeped through her, soaking deep into her flesh, her bones, her heart. “And yet,” she murmured, “you could’ve taken the star sapphires, left me to face al-Rahim on my own. But you didn’t.”

  “Olevski—”

  “A man motivated by revenge thinks of nothing else. You wouldn’t have let years pass without trying to kill Olevski, if that’s all that mattered to you. No,” she said, gazing up at him, “there’s far more to you than you’re willing to admit, Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov. I can see it. Why can’t you?”

  His gaze was bleak. “Imperfect machinery.”

  “We can only work with what we’re given, but that doesn’t mean hope is abandoned.”

  He growled a laugh. “Hope.”

  “A fragile thing, to be sure,” she acknowledged. “But that’s why I study different cultures. Always a hope that we’ll survive. That we may, in truth, evolve into something better.”

  Yet they both seemed to understand that there’d be no time for evolution. All they had was that moment—the two of them, in his cabin, waiting for the morning and its promise of bloodshed.

  Then he pressed his lips to hers, for words and thoughts of tomorrow were imperfect and clumsy. Bodies could speak with much more eloquence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  FOR THE SECOND time in as many days, Daphne woke in the protective shelter of Mikhail’s arms. He was solid and warm all around her, covered with acres of muscle. She inh
aled his now-familiar scent of male flesh and hot metal. His weight was substantial but not crushing. Mostly, she realized, because he carefully kept his body angled so he didn’t lie fully atop her.

  Her mind drifted back to last night. Their kisses had grown more demanding, their hungers building, until they’d made love, using every surface in his quarters. It had been as good between them as it had been in the cupola. Better. For they knew the ways of each other now, what their bodies craved, and how to satisfy those cravings. As if they had developed an instinct for each other.

  She ought to feel fragile and tiny, lying beside him, feeling against her own body the vast differences between them. She had no telumium implants to make her big and strong. Yet there was something within him that shored up her own strength. A belief in herself. For all the mistrust she’d cultivated between them, they’d actually grown more certain of each other. Last night, she’d tasted it in his kisses, in the way they’d made love with rough, confident urgency, each assured in themselves and each other.

  Opening her eyes fully, she studied him in the predawn light. He still slept, his full lips slightly parted. But sleep didn’t soften him. A collection of sharp contours—cheekbones, nose, jaw—that outrageous crest of hair, and the rows of rings along his ears. Everything he could have done to himself to brand himself an outsider, he’d done. She knew the why of it now. The permanent exile he’d assigned himself, not just in distance, but in his heart.

  Except she’d felt him drawing closer. Their bodies, yes—he had filled her to her utmost, and she still felt a pleasant soreness hours later. Yet there had been more. He’d revealed hidden parts of himself, his darkest thoughts and deeds. But if he’d thought to scare her away or repel her … he’d much to learn.

  There wouldn’t be any more time to learn anything. Every minute brought them closer to al-Rahim’s compound, and to battle.

  At the thought of what was to come, she shifted slightly. Mikhail’s eyes immediately opened, sharp with full wakefulness. She tried to smile at him. He didn’t return the smile, his gaze somber, and leaned down and kissed her, his fingers tangling in her hair. When he moved back, she felt his reluctance, and she resisted the impulse to grab him and pull him close. They couldn’t pretend that this was just another morning.