Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03]

by Skies of Gold

  “No,” she said. But before he could feel any sense of relief, she added, “Not yet.”

  “But you will.” Was that his voice, the noise that sounded like rusted machinery?

  Quietly, she said, “At some point—yes.”

  “When?” He pulled his hand free from hers, even though he missed her touch, and stood. His skin felt tight, and his chest burned. The rat, Four, had come to investigate whether or not there were any bits of food after their meal, but the little animal scurried back into the walls to avoid Fletcher’s pacing.

  “When I’m ready,” she answered.

  “Got a date for that?” he demanded, turning to face her. She’d slipped on her chemise, a barrier between them, when she’d been so free and open only minutes earlier. “November? December? Back to civilization just in time for Christmas?”

  She didn’t flinch at the edge in his voice, even as he hated it, himself. He hated everything about it: that he could be so cruel to her, that she’d become so important to him that the thought of being without her on the island made the future months and years look like a world leached of color. But the words came, whether he wanted them to or not.

  “I don’t know when,” she said, calm as the Atlantic doldrums.

  “But you will go,” he repeated, as much for himself as for her.

  “One can’t make a life here.”

  “I have.”

  Her eyes were full of shadows and understanding. “Have you?”

  He felted riveted to the floor, breath pounding in and out of him. That goddamn engineer’s mind of hers. She cut right to the heart of him, as if he’d been drawn up like some bloody blueprint and she could study all his parts, all his needs and hungers and fears.

  Somehow, he managed to tear himself from the floor. Without another word, he slammed from the cabin.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  Kali debated going after him. She’d hurt him, and perhaps that had been a surprise, perhaps it hadn’t. Never had she planned on hurting Fletcher, yet as she sat up in bed and stared out the window, seeing mostly her own ghostly reflection, it seemed there’d been a terrible inevitability to it. They were both walking wounded. Something was bound to open the wounds again.

  But what could she tell him? What would take his pain away? She wasn’t Emily, rejecting him because he was a Man O’ War. But he might not see it that way.

  The glow of her pleasure—from the aftermath of their lovemaking, from the knowledge that he cared for her enough to want her with him—had cooled.

  She’d never felt real emotion for any man until she met him. And that meant she’d hurt him, and herself. Was that the nature of caring? Did it mean inevitable suffering?

  Sitting there in bed debating the nature of the human heart would solve nothing. She strapped on her prosthetic leg, then stood and threw on a robe. Taking a lantern with her, she moved down the passageway until she reached the closed door to his quarters. She tapped lightly on the door.

  “Fletcher, please,” she said, when there was no answer. She pressed her hand to the door. “It’s got nothing to do with you. Or the fact that you’re a Man O’ War. I always knew I’d leave this island and rejoin the world. This place is . . . a temporary haven. Our time together has been some of the best of my life.” She’d never spoken truer words. “Yet we both know that this place . . . it’s not real. It’s an in-between. Somewhere to learn how to live again. I want to live again. Don’t you?”

  More silence from the other side of the door. Frustration welled. She wasn’t the sort of person who blathered on about things like feelings, not unless it truly mattered. The quiet between them had been just as valuable as the words. Yet here she was, trying to give him what she could, and he remained locked in stubborn, childish silence.

  If he thought to hide from her, and that she wouldn’t pursue him, he didn’t know her very well.

  “Damn it, Fletcher. Let me in.” She tried the handle of the door. It turned easily in her hand, and the door swung open.

  Holding up the lantern, she stepped inside. His cabin was empty.

  A quiet, bitter laugh escaped her. She’d been pouring herself out to an unoccupied room.

  Instead of returning to her quarters, she searched the ship. All the cabins, all the chambers. The gunnery. The magazine. The topside deck, where the ether-powered barrel they’d taken up into the sky still stood, tied to the airship. Aside from encountering a surprised Four in the galley, she was the only person aboard the Persephone.

  He’d gone.

  She stood topside, scanning the moor. Without his enhanced sight, she couldn’t see much. Only the black sea of heath, and the dark shapes of the hills.

  An engineering periodical had run an article about a scientist in Suriname making progress on goggles that would allow the wearer to see in utter darkness. If only Kali had those goggles, she could find Fletcher. But the goggles hadn’t yet been perfected, and even if she had a pair, she wasn’t certain she wanted to chase after him, when he’d run from her like a wounded animal.

  He would return. Maybe not for her, but at least because he had to be back on his ship. Though she wondered if he was angry enough to stay away and let the energy and power build up within him, until it broke and caused a berserker rage.

  Chill night air cut through her thin robe and chemise. She shivered, but waited a little longer, hoping he’d return. When her fingers and toes numbed, she headed down the companionway, into the ship that had only been her home when he’d been there. Without him, it was just an empty carcass on the moors.

  In the morning, she dressed and entered the galley to scrounge for breakfast. She stopped abruptly in the doorway. Fletcher stood at the tall food preparation table, cleaning fish. He looked windblown but focused on his task, keeping his head bent as she slowly came into the galley. It felt like those first few times they’d encountered each other, that same uncertainty and caution she’d show around a feral creature.

  She knew he was aware of her presence. He’d surely heard her stirring in her quarters not fifteen minutes ago, and her progress down the passageway, but he’d made no move to go to her, or even acknowledge that he’d returned after . . . well, she’d no idea what he’d done or where he had gone after abandoning ship last night.

  Like a chophouse patron waiting for his meal, Four sat on one of the chairs in the galley, hoping that Fletcher would toss him a scrap of fish meat or guts. The rat barely paid her any notice. Just like the man.

  Voice flat, Fletcher said, “Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “I can help clean the fish,” she offered.

  He shook his head. “It’ll go faster if I do it.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “So this is how it’s to be, now.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We were partners. Friends.” She stepped closer. “Lovers.”

  He gave the tiniest flinch, as though the word itself was an iron filing shoved under his fingernail. His knife slipped, and ran down the center of his palm. She darted forward, to help staunch what would surely be a bad cut, but he only held his hand away.

  “No damage done,” he said gruffly.

  She glanced up and saw the unhurt expanse of his palm. So a Man O’ War’s flesh was tough to pierce, but his heart had its vulnerabilities.

  He resumed his work, his knife fast and brutally efficient as he gutted the fish and dropped the entrails into a waiting bucket.

  “I don’t think that’s so,” she said.

  “Don’t know why you’d want to go back,” he muttered. “Liverpool’s gone.”

  “There’s always Plymouth or Southampton, or even London.”

  “But you’re safe here.” With me, seemed to be the silent adjunct to his words, and her own heart ached.

  “What if . . .” She struggled, half afraid of what she was about to say. “What if I didn’t go back alone?”

  His knife slowed, s
topped. Letting go of the blade, he set his hands on the table, his wide shoulders forming a protective barrier. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “I can’t,” he said hoarsely.

  “They’d take you back in an instant, the navy.” She spoke quickly, as if the speed of her words could somehow convince him, shut out any arguments. “I’m certain they could find some other role for you besides combat. A coastal patrol, perhaps. Even something on land that would keep you near batteries, so you wouldn’t have to overload. It can be done, Fletcher.” She gripped his forearm, feeling the heat of his skin and the tight, corded muscle. He’d rolled up his sleeves for the messy business of cleaning fish, so they touched, skin-to-skin, as they had yesterday. Except it had been more than her hand on his arm. It had been them touching each other everywhere, inside and out. The memory of it sent a thick pulse of need through her—need for sensation, need for him.

  He lifted his gaze to hers. Her breath caught at the agony in his eyes. “Kali—”

  Suddenly, he tensed. The pain in his eyes disappeared, replaced by alert wariness. He snapped upright. His hand went to his waist, and his fingers closed around the grip of his ether pistol.

  “What is it?” she whispered, unease scraping along her back. She couldn’t hear whatever it was that Fletcher heard, but that meant nothing. His senses were far sharper than hers.

  He held up a hand, and she immediately went silent. Noiselessly, he slid from the galley, then edged up the companionway to the top deck. Kali deliberated for half a second, then ran to her quarters and grabbed her shotgun. As fast as she could, she joined him topside.

  He stood at the rail, staring off toward the west. Whatever he saw, it made his jaw harden. She swore quietly, having forgotten her spyglass in her cabin, so she could only watch, and wait, to see what emerged from the low-lying morning fog.

  Her chest tightened when she finally saw three figures appear on the moor. Heading right toward them. She tried to dismiss her fear: whoever those people were, they could just be fishermen who anchored their boat and decided to explore the deserted island. But Fletcher’s caginess was infectious. In the months she’d been on Eilean Comhachag, no one had come to the island except Campbell, and only then because she paid him to.

  Fletcher let out a florid oath as the figures drew nearer. They were still too far away for her to make out anything more than their shapes, but he’d seen something she hadn’t. He held himself in suspension. She didn’t know if he was going to vault over the side of the ship and meet the newcomers, ether pistol ready, or wait for them to come to the Persephone.

  He glanced at her, his eyes bright and sharp and dangerous. “Damn it. I thought about this moment too many times—it wasn’t ever going to happen like this.”

  “Fletcher, tell me what’s going on. Who is that?”

  His mouth flattened into a tight line. “You’ll know in a moment.”

  Part of her wanted to end the suspense, and scale the rope ladder he’d made for her to get down from the ship, then run to face off against the outsiders. But it was a foolish impulse, and she stayed where she was beside Fletcher, though she double-checked that her firearm was loaded.

  The people came closer, and she could finally make out details of their appearance. Two of the men seemed especially burly, though the third man of average build seemed to be the leader. All of them were dressed in ordinary seafaring clothing.

  As they neared, the leader waved his arm overhead and let out a halloo. There wasn’t anything threatening in his tone. If anything, he sounded happy to see them.

  Fletcher returned the gesture, waving his arm, but giving no halloo.

  At last, the three newcomers reached the downed airship. The man in the lead looked up at Fletcher with a wide grin. His gaze darted to her, but didn’t linger. His two associates had no expressions.

  “Captain Adams,” the leader said, beaming, “words cannot express my pleasure in seeing you and the Persephone again.”

  Kali started. She’d never known Fletcher’s surname until now.

  “Lieutenant Mayhew,” he answered. Though he spoke with caution, there was genuine pleasure in Fletcher’s voice.

  She said nothing, but her mind whirled. It was clear Mayhew had served under Fletcher aboard this airship.

  “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  A moment passed. Then, “Permission granted. There’s a ladder portside.”

  Giving Fletcher another grin, Mayhew and his companions hastened around the ship. As they did, Fletcher let out one long, exhausted exhale. He turned weary eyes to her.

  “It seems I’m no longer dead,” he murmured.

  Kali set her shotgun down and waited beside Fletcher—Captain Fletcher Adams—as his former officer and the other men climbed the ladder. Her stomach was strangely knotted, encountering a living part of Fletcher’s past. There was something else, something hot and possessive, that curled in her.

  God, after all her talk of leaving the island, was she jealous of Mayhew? It couldn’t be so. But the lieutenant—who looked perfectly pleasant, with his sandy hair and neatly-trimmed mustache—had shared something with Fletcher that she never could. They’d been colleagues, working together on this airship. They had been in combat together. War was a kind of solder that joined men together in an unbreakable bond.

  She shook her head, trying to clear the maelstrom of thoughts. Gazing quickly at Fletcher, she could only imagine what he must be feeling. Pleasure at seeing his old comrade. Anger and sadness that he’d be forced to leave Eilean Comhachag, when he’d made it clear he didn’t want to go.

  “He doesn’t have to tell anyone that you’re here,” Kali murmured quietly.

  Fletcher’s mouth tightened even more. “I can’t do that to Mayhew—make him lie to the navy. It’d be a grave dereliction of duty.”

  Any further discussion was cut short by the arrival of the lieutenant on deck. His two companions followed shortly after. As soon as Mayhew’s boots touched the deck, he strode forward, hand outstretched. “Captain, my heart has never known such joy in finding you.”

  Fletcher shook the lieutenant’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.” He didn’t sound entirely insincere, either. When Mayhew’s curious gaze skimmed over to Kali, Fletcher said, “This is Miss . . . Miss . . .”

  “MacNeil,” Kali filled in for him. Just speaking her last name again felt like slipping into another self. She shook Lieutenant Mayhew’s hand. “By sheer coincidence, Captain Adams and I happen to be neighbors on this island.”

  Mayhew frowned. “Does anyone else live here?”

  “Only us.” Before Mayhew could press for details, Fletcher glanced at the other two men standing impassively nearby and asked, “And your friends?”

  Mayhew spoke for them. “These two gentlemen are Misters Grady and Robbins. Local men I’ve hired.”

  “Hired to do what?” Kali asked.

  The lieutenant’s face broke into another grin. “Why, find the captain, of course.” He stared at Fletcher. “They searched for weeks, sir, trying to locate you. There had been hope that perhaps you’d managed to land the Persephone and survived. However, all their searches proved fruitless. Everyone thinks you dead, and the airship destroyed or lost beneath the waves. You’ve been declared dead, and the ship lost.”

  Fletcher held out his arms. “Here we are, sound as an iron bridge.”

  “But, sir, if you survived, why did you not notify anyone?”

  Shuttering his expression even more, Fletcher answered, “My reasons are my own, Lieutenant.”

  Mayhew slid another glance at Kali, a knowing expression on his face. She barely resisted the impulse to roll her eyes or punch the man, or both.

  “How is it that you’re on our island, Lieutenant Mayhew?” she asked instead. “The navy believes Captain Fletcher dead and the Persephone permanently missing. You’ve no reason to be here.”

  A brief shadow crossed Mayhew’s face. “Indeed, Miss MacNeil, I don’t. I had to trust the Admiralty
that they’d done all they could to rescue or recover the captain. But, as you see”—he gestured down at his clothing—“I’m not here in an official capacity. Most of us who’ve survived Liverpool were given commendations—oh, and you were given a posthumous Victoria Cross.”

  Fletcher didn’t even blink at the mention of this, the highest honor that could be bestowed upon a man in service to his country.

  Mayhew seemed taken aback that Fletcher seemed unconcerned about his medal. But he pressed on, “Everyone who served in the sea and air at Liverpool were given extended leave. With the Huns and Russians trounced so thoroughly, we all have a moment to catch our respective breaths.”

  “The other men,” Fletcher said, his voice hard and urgent. “They all survived the evacuation?”

  “Every one of them,” Mayhew answered. “Some were injured, but nothing serious.”

  Fletcher let out a long exhalation, one that spoke of profound relief.

  “So you’ve spent your leave looking for Captain Adams?” she asked. “That’s an unusual amount of devotion to a commanding officer.” She glanced at Fletcher. He’d never given any indications—certainly not yesterday—that he preferred the company of men, or that there was one man in particular who had held a special place in his heart. But then, there was still much about Fletcher she didn’t know.

  The lieutenant beamed. “Captain Adams was always so tolerant of my interest in inventions. How could I not try to find the one man who’d been so encouraging?”

  She remembered Fletcher mentioning the tinkering Mayhew used to do. “The captain’s very good about accepting people for who they are.”

  Fletcher said nothing, looking distinctly uncomfortable at hearing himself praised.

  “But now that I’m here,” Mayhew continued, “back on the Persephone, it makes me wonder . . .”

  “Wonder what?” Fletcher asked.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. “There’s something on the ship . . . an item of personal significance . . .” He looked slightly abashed.