Ducking her head and gripping her arms tight to her body to make herself as small as possible, she pressed her thumb to the compact. An energy field detonated about her. Her hair rose up on her arms, her fantastic coiffure ruined. Ears ringing, she blinked and forced her watering eyes to focus. The Ravens had been blown down and torn apart as a cyclone destroys a forest. Bodies tumbled together, twisted and broken. Stomach churning, she sought out Sig, but she couldn’t find him.
Dear God, if I’ve killed him…
“No! Charlotte!”
The roar came from behind her. Her thumb automatically pressed the button again, but the device hadn’t yet recharged. Something slammed into her, knocking the wind out of her, although she didn’t fall. She tried to cry out, but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
She looked down. A lazor protruded from her stomach, and the energized blade smoldered her lovely silk gown. Think of what it’s doing to my intestines.
An arm wrapped around her, holding her up. “Americus doesn’t need your filthy technology, Doctor.” It took her a moment to recognize Director Howitzer’s voice. “Runner, here’s your prize! Come and get her!”
The director gave her a shove forward and she fell. The burning blade slid through her body and a cry tore out of her mouth. At least the hateful woman didn’t drag the lazor up to fry her heart and lungs.
Unable to get her arms to cooperate, she fell hard, knocking the last bit of air from her lungs. Pain intruded, her abdomen catching fire as though millions of fireflies blazed in her stomach.
“Charlie.” Sig’s voice forced her to open her eyes. He leaned over her, battered and bloody, his eyes wild like she’d never seen before.
Gil dropped down on her other side, his big hands trembling against her stomach. He pressed hard, too hard, and she gasped with the pain of it, but she knew it should have hurt more. She ought to be shrieking her pain, but it didn’t feel as badly as she expected.
Which told her that she was dying.
“We must stop the bleeding!”
A calm lassitude fogged her mind and slowed her thoughts. She smiled up at her two men and tried to tell them how much they meant to her, but she couldn’t get the words to come out of her mouth. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.
She felt lips on her forehead, her cheek. The locket was crushing her, so heavy on her chest like a cold, dead stone. Sig gathered her into his arms and stretched out on top of her. Not to be denied, Gil pressed closer, too, sharing his body heat and offering his protection. Moisture dripped on her face. The floor rocked beneath her, explosions sounded far too close for comfort, but wrapped in their arms, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She closed her eyes and waited to die.
Closing his eyes, Sig willed the tiny creatures living inside him to flow into the dying woman in his arms. Save her, even if it takes every last one of you. Save her!
To make it as easy for the transfer as possible, he pressed his heart to her abdomen, ignoring Masters’s futile attempt to stem the blood cascading from the horrible wound. Her skin looked paper thin, faint blue lines tracing delicate rivers beneath the fine porcelain. Her chest barely moved, and her arm fell from his neck, lifeless and limp.
“No!” He pressed his body tighter to hers, pouring his life into her, but he couldn’t tell if it was working until his own heart stuttered. Pain banded his chest in a vise, squeezing his lungs, but he didn’t draw back. His bracing arm trembled, forcing him to drop more of his weight upon her.
Masters grabbed his shoulders, as though he were going to toss him aside like kindling. “Don’t,” Sig gasped through the pain. “Healing her.”
“Whatever you’re doing is killing you.” But he steadied Sig instead of hauling him off her. Raising his voice, Masters shouted, “Medic!”
“Don’t care.”
Her eyes flew open and she sucked in a deep breath. “Sig.”
His face felt frozen and stiff, but he forced his lips to curve into a smile. “Charlie.”
“No.” Her eyes flared wide, with pain or panic, he couldn’t tell. “Don’t die. Not for me.”
“Always. For you.”
A dour-faced woman dropped down beside them. Masters lifted Sig up enough for her to see the wound in Lady Wyre’s stomach, and the doctor paled. “Dear God. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Bio-band,” Sig wheezed out.
“The infection—”
“Do what he says,” Masters retorted, his voice ringing with command.
Grumbling, the doctor flipped open her metal case and took out a slim canister. “The bio-bandage will seal whatever debris and filth she’s picked up from the dock, air, and the weapon used to deliver the wound. Her body will make the perfect breeding ground for bacteria. Trust me, son, you don’t want to see a loved one eaten alive by gangrene.”
“Do it.” Sig gritted his teeth. “I’ll take care of the infection.”
The doctor narrowed her eyes with disbelief, but unscrewed the cap. “I need her clothing—and you!—out of the way.”
Masters rolled him to the side and fisted his hands in the silk of her gown. Trying to lighten the mood, he looked up into her face. “Sorry about the silk, sweetheart,” and then he ripped the gown open. Her corset was in the way, too, so he picked up the director’s lazor still dark with Charlotte’s burnt blood and used it to cut the laces.
While all Sig could do was lie there and gasp like a beached whale.
The doctor tipped the canister over Charlotte’s stomach, and a clear gel oozed out to cover the horrible wound. “I need to get some on her back too.”
Masters helped roll her over, his face ravaged with guilt at every sound of pain she made while he wrestled her around. “Hang on, Charlie.”
Sig closed his eyes to block out the tenderness on the sheriff’s face, the way those big, ragged paws moved her so tenderly. He’ll take good care of her, he tried to console himself, but the thought only made him feel worse. His heart ceased beating, but his mind—and worse, his poor damaged heart—refused to die.
Charlie threw out her hand and threaded her fingers into his hair, tugging his face up. “Come. Here.”
He wanted to refuse. He wanted to simply lie there and die with what small honor and dignity he’d managed to win by protecting the famous Lady Doctor Wyre from the Queen’s Ravens. He wanted to be bigger than the jealous rage burning in his breast that yearned to bury his longest blade in Masters’s gut.
But her eyes gripped him as firmly as Britannia held her conquered planets in Queen Majel’s grasp. He couldn’t not obey her command; every cell in his body, both organic and lady-made, demanded he move to her side. He could only hope that the emotion darkening her eyes might be love and not pity.
Fighting against the darkness closing in, he dragged himself to her. Her strength had returned enough that she helped pull his upper body up onto her. She released him to pick up the locket, lifting it toward his chest. “You gave your life to me.”
Sig ducked his head and planted his mouth on the metal. He’d expected enough power to blow off the back of his skull, but the locket felt cold, reflecting how low her life energy had ebbed. Tiredly, he dropped his head against her breast, pinning the locket between them, and his heart found the will to beat once more.
Chapter Eleven
Seated high above the most powerful nobles of the galaxy, Queen Majel tried very hard not to rip anyone’s head off in impatience. At least not yet.
At last, Seneschal Murray made his way to her side bearing a golden tray. Without a word, she took the offered datapad and scanned the latest report from Americus.
Lady Wyre had evaded capture once more. At least one hundred Ravens were dead or imprisoned. Only one Runner had managed to make his report before disappearing among the commoners as he’d been trained.
Fury beat wings of desperation inside her. She took a moment to close her eyes and steady her breath, so that when she spoke, her voice was even witho
ut betraying any emotion. “Our Solstice celebration will not include the arrival of Lady Wyre after all.”
Seneschal Murray clicked his heels together and bowed. “My regrets, Your Majesty.”
“Regrets,” she whispered softly. “I regret ever letting that woman into my confidence. I wish…” Her voice fell off, her throat tight. She’d had no alternative. Without Lady Wyre, she would have died. Her House would have lost the throne. But now that accursed woman knows my most dreadful secrets.
“Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.”
Gathering her pride about her like a protective cloak, she settled more comfortably in her throne. Wishes were for starry-eyed fools who dreamed of a perfect, happy existence while those with a will of iron created her own reality. “I wish the gift presentation to begin.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
Gifts from all over the galaxy were brought before her throne: caskets of tea from Kali Kata, raw silk from Zijin, even some sort of beast so heavily manacled that she couldn’t tell how many legs it possessed. In comparison, the gift from Americus seemed rather drab and plain: a gilded cage containing an ugly brown bird.
Granted, the bird was rather large, making her House’s chosen symbol of the raven look like a fledgling. “What sort of bird is that, Murray?”
He scanned the datapad for the gift registry. “It’s an eagle, Your Majesty, and a personal gift from Jaxson of Americus.”
The self-declared ruler of her colony. Murray had wisely given the woman neither title nor courtesy.
Majel tipped her head to the side, studying the bird. Her first instinct was to reject the gift as unacceptable, but the eagle stared back at her, tilting its regal white head too.
It’s mocking me.
Eyes narrowed, she rose and stepped closer to the bird. Had the rebels trained it to speak? Did it have some concocted message of rebellion to give her? It fluttered its wings softly, a subtle invitation to draw near. Or a warning?
A strange, unexpected sound emitted from its beak. Not the shrill scream of a predatory bird nor even the raucous cry of a raven, but a soft, fragile coo.
Wyre’s symbol had long been a dove.
Her skin prickled along her spine, hot and cold needles digging into her skin. She jerked to a halt several paces from the creature. Her heart beat unnaturally fast and her face felt flushed. The eagle? Or her own desperation? She couldn’t decide, and now that she’d moved closer, her nobles watched her as diligently as the caged eagle.
Who’s caged and who’s free, she thought bitterly, unable to send the bird away now that her adoring throng—who would fall upon her like a pack of starving wolves as soon as she showed a single sign of weakness—had noticed her interest.
The bird cried out again and her muscles turned to water. Her knees trembled. Sweat broke out on her forehead yet her teeth yearned to chatter. She tightened her jaws and locked her knees, refusing to show any weakness or fear, even if her heart thundered.
Voices rose in alarm. Murray snapped to her side and cupped her elbow, discreetly supporting her. “Electronic devices are failing,” he whispered urgently. “It’s a cascading outage getting worse by the moment. Your Majesty, the shields! I think it’s an attack!”
She couldn’t answer. The eagle stared at her, golden eyes as sharp as a blade. Razored talons twisted in her stomach, churning her organs until she couldn’t stop the small gasp of pain.
“Dear God, your skin is so hot. What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”
Oh, Americus had attacked all right. Whatever technology Lady Wyre had used to save Britannia’s Queen had suddenly decided to cease operation. I’m dying. She has assassinated me without ever setting foot on Britannian soil.
The gilded cage collapsed and the mighty eagle sprang into the air, still crying that odd coo that was shutting down the Londonium grid. On the one day that Americus managed to cast Britannia in shadow, Lady Wyre had managed to push the heart of the most powerful Empire in the galaxy into darkest terror. Automatic lights failed, the datapad in Murray’s hand went blank, and everywhere, people shrilled with terror at all they’d lost.
Her threat was clear: I have created a weapon that is so simple and small that an ordinary bird can carry it, but so powerful that I can obliterate all you hold dear.
However, as the bird flew away, spreading mayhem with its cries, Majel felt incrementally better. The pain faded, her breathing eased, and the debilitating fever that had nearly killed her as a newly crowned Queen disappeared. The tiny mechanical creatures that marched throughout her body must have returned to their primary directive: keeping her alive.
She jerked her arm free from Murray’s grasp, turned, and strode back to her throne. Sitting in the grand golden chair with the crown of Britannia on her brow, she gazed out at the destruction Americus and Lady Wyre had wrought. Shadows darkened the cavernous room that hadn’t been blacked out since Majel had taken the throne. The might and majesty of Londonium had fallen deathly silent, dead in the water like a ship without wind to fill its sail.
Something fell into her lap. A feather. She held it up to the sliver of sun shining down through the glass ceiling as the hunk of rock called Americus moved past in its accursed orbit. When she smiled, Murray ducked his head and went to his knees before her. “Americus will regret this little display.”
“Shall I check on the shields, Your Majesty? Rebels could have slipped inside Londonium while we were disabled.”
She gave him a regal nod, though she didn’t think it likely. No, this entire stunt was simply a message. Lady Wyre had joined forces with that revolting little colony which had dared declare their independence, and while she’d been in hiding, she’d been very busy indeed crafting new weapons to destroy her rightful ruler.
No, that wasn’t right at all. She’d been building weapons to protect herself. She’d had the power to kill Majel, but at the last moment, had withdrawn. Her message: stay away from me or die.
She’ll regret leaving me alive. Majel ran the feather through her fingers. I’ll allow her to fly free for a time, let her believe her threat has worked. I must bring MIGS back beneath my authority first, else they’ll steal every scrap of knowledge Wyre gives me and use it to destroy the entire universe with their greed.
Studying the feather, she frowned slightly. How curious. I thought the eagle had been brown, not black.
“Murray,” she called after him, “did one of the ravens nesting on top of the Tower fly inside?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Your Majesty.”
Her scalp itched. She reached up behind her ear, and froze when her fingers encountered something not hair. Another feather. Cold sweat trickled down her spine. Shaking, she tucked the fallen feather into her hair behind her ear, hopefully disguising the odd growth until she could examine it at leisure.
Oh, Lady Doctor Wyre, what have you done to me?
Chapter Twelve
“And…goodbye, Americus.” Sig leaned back in his captain’s chair but didn’t look up to gauge Charlotte’s reaction as her home for the past seven years grew ever smaller behind his sleek catamaran. “Any regrets?”
She dropped her hand onto his shoulder and squeezed. “Not a one. Except perhaps…” She felt his muscles tense beneath her fingers, so she relented. “I could do without that ugly scar on my stomach.”
He turned to her, then, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “There’s not an ugly spot on your luscious body and you know it.”
Quirking her lips, she tugged lightly on the golden hair falling about his face. “I do regret the silk, then, that Gil so casually destroyed. That was a lovely dress, bought and paid for by the President of Americus.”
“She stuffed my hold full of every scrap of silk she could get her hands on in payment for your services. Ladies all over Americus are bemoaning their sadly lacking wardrobes and hating you most dreadfully for stealing all their dress goods.”
She leaned down and brushed her lips against his. “What now
?”
The tension increased in his body, although he laughed and tried to pretend as though he wasn’t worried. “Anything you wish, Your Grace.”
“I’m not going to ask you to put Lord Regret to rest.”
He tipped his head back, eyes narrowed as he searched her face. “Lord Regret is a killer.”
“And a damned good one,” she replied easily. “I’m not going to change who you are, Sig. If you weren’t a killer, I wouldn’t be alive today. Just don’t accept an assignment to eliminate anyone I care about, like President Jaxson.”
“Or a certain Sheriff Masters.”
Now it was her turn to try and play off her nerves. She arched a brow at Sig. “Would you kill my marshal, Lord Regret?”
Speaking of the devil, the door whooshed open. Masters hovered in the doorway, looking from Sig to her and taking note of the compromising position. Gil’s jaws worked but he didn’t say anything; he simply turned around to leave.
“Where are you going?” She released Sig and marched toward Gil. Halting, she planted her hands on her hips and gave him a firm look. “Well?”
Gil cleared his throat, staring down at the battered hat in his hands as he slowly twirled it. “You looked busy, Your Grace. I didn’t wish to interrupt you.”
“You’re not interrupting, Gil.” She reached out and took his big gruff hand in hers. The feel of his calloused palm against hers made the muscles in her tummy quiver. “We were just talking about you.”
“We were?” Sig kicked back in his chair like a negligent lord. “I don’t recall inviting any passengers on my ship.”
“He’s my passenger and my guest.” Charlotte lifted her chin and shot a dark look at Sig. “You don’t have to make this so bloody difficult.”
“If I’m not welcome,” Gil began.
“You’re welcome,” she retorted, and then whirled to point a finger at Sig. “He asked me to marry him, remember? All you ever asked me to do was fly on your ship.”
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