She made her way onto the deck and shielded her eyes as she looked up at the wheelhouse situated at the stern, atop the quarterdeck. It was large, entirely enclosed in iron-framed glass that gave it the look of an ornate greenhouse or solarium. She imagined the view from inside would be spectacular.
There were two men in the wheelhouse; one was the captain, but she’d not met the other. She just turned away when she heard the door to the wheelhouse open.
“Dr. Cooper.” The captain stood at the top of the stairs and motioned her forward.
She raised a brow and slowly climbed the steps. “I’m neither a senior officer nor quartermaster, Captain. I should not be climbing these hallowed stairs.”
“You imply an awe for shipboard protocol—then this shall be a treat. We do not stand on ceremony on my personal flights, especially with so few passengers aboard.”
She wouldn’t label it “awe,” precisely, but she wasn’t about to argue, so she merely nodded.
He bowed lightly. “You seem much refreshed.”
She smiled, determined to show her gratitude for allowing her aboard. “I am, and I wish to truly express my thanks to you for so graciously—”
“—capitulating to your threats of blackmail and ruination?”
She cleared her throat. He would not make it easy. And why should he, really? He was correct. She had extorted his weakness to gain something she needed. Did he need to forgive her? Was it unreasonable of her to ask it of him? If she possessed any remaining decency, she would make herself scarce and keep out of his way for the rest of the trip. “I am—Captain, I am genuinely sorry. I was . . .” She glanced away. His scrutiny was overpowering. “I was desperate. I am desperate.”
He studied her for a moment. “Come in here.”
She entered the wheelhouse, feeling awkward. What must the other man think of her? Surely the captain would have explained her presence to him. The gentleman nodded to her and returned his attention to a large instrument panel.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about him that felt slightly off. Not negatively so, but different.
Captain Pickett motioned with his head, and she joined him at the instrument panel. “Samson, our esteemed passenger, Dr. Cooper.”
She extended her hand, and the gentleman smiled at her. When she looked at his eyes, she caught her breath. “A pleasure, Mr. Samson,” she said, stunned. He was the most lifelike ’ton she’d ever seen.
“Just Samson, Dr. Cooper. And the pleasure is mine. Are you enjoying the voyage thus far?”
She glanced at Captain Pickett, who quirked a half smile. “I . . . Yes. Very much, thank you.”
“Samson is my valet and personal assistant whenever we operate commercial flights. He’s my right-hand man and virtually half of my brain. Don’t know how to function without him.”
“You are too modest, sir.” He turned to Isla. “He gives me far too much credit.”
“Check the coordinates in ten minutes.” Pickett looked at a large chart near the control panel. “I’d also like a forecast for the next twelve hours.”
“Very good, sir.”
Captain Pickett took Isla’s elbow and guided her to a row of cushioned benches at the other end of the room.
“How on earth?” She tried to keep her voice down. “How did you come upon that kind of programming? I’ve never seen the likes of it anywhere!”
He smiled. “I know some talented people. And it also doesn’t hurt to donate large sums of money to the brightest minds in science and technological advancement industries.”
She tried to keep her mouth from dropping open, but as she watched Samson, she was flabbergasted. “I have seen lifelike ’tons before, but there is usually something, some movement that gives them away.” She looked at the captain, eyes wide.
“He was two years in the making, and he’s very much a companion.” He lifted a shoulder. “Helpful when one doesn’t have much time for the human variety. Now, then, Dr. Isla Cooper. Suppose you tell me why you bullied your way onto my ship.”
Daniel sat beside Dr. Cooper and waited for her to regain her composure after the shock of meeting Samson. She certainly wasn’t the first person to react in such surprise, and he doubted she’d be the last.
“I knew there was something about him.” She watched the ’ton, her brow wrinkled.
Her pronouncement surprised him. “You sensed he wasn’t human?”
She shook her head. “I sensed something different.” She laughed. “I was trying to determine what manner of shifter he was.”
He’d seen little levity from her, and her laugh caused his heart to skip a beat. She really was a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who was in desperate straits, by her own admission, and he remained uncertain how it would affect him and his “cargo.”
“Why are you here?” he asked quietly.
She sobered, turning her attention to the stunning view of clouds and endless sky outside the windows. “I must find someone in Port Lucy, and time is of the essence.”
“Who is this someone? Perhaps I know him.” He’d been instrumental in establishing the port city, after all. Even named it after his sister.
She shook her head. “She is not native to the Caribbean, and in fact only left England a few months ago. I am not certain how long she plans to remain away, or if she will ever return.”
“Have you an address?”
She shook her head and turned her green eyes to his. “My reasons are my own, and I ask that you not press me. Just know that this trip is extraordinarily important to me.”
“Is it a matter of life or death?”
She exhaled quietly. “I hope not.”
“You hope not?”
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “My friend, Hazel Hughes, is a brilliant woman who has been helping me learn some . . . things, but even with all the resources at her disposal, she has been unable to ascertain the exact nature of the . . . situation’s potential outcome.”
He knit his brow. “Hazel Hughes. Why do I know that name?”
“She is acquainted with your sister, Lucy. Perhaps she has mentioned her?”
“You know Lucy?”
She shook her head. “I personally do not.”
Hazel . . . Ah, yes. Miss Hughes was a medium who had been hired to help with some issues at Blackwell Manor though the results of her efforts had led to a violent attack on both her and Lucy. “I’m afraid what little I know of Miss Hughes does not speak well of her expertise.”
She flushed. “Her expertise as a medium, no. A practitioner of Light Magick, yes. And as a mind that can store facts, retain them like a steel trap, unparalleled. Her mother seems to think . . .” The doctor waved her hand. “It matters not. Suffice it to say that Hazel is the best person I know to locate obscure facts and resources. And her best information has directed me here. I’m afraid nobody knows the solution to my problem except the person I must find in Port Lucy.”
“How long do you anticipate it will take? What are your plans for returning home?”
She lifted a shoulder and looked out the window. “That is a bridge I will cross when I reach it.”
“You could find yourself stuck in Port Lucy for weeks—a month, two months.”
She snapped her attention back to him. “It doesn’t matter! I’ll figure out how to get home after I’ve taken care of everything else.”
He studied her. She was flushed, agitated, her foot wiggled as though she had a difficult time remaining stationary. The woman was a doctor, a well-known professional in London, and she had handily secured passage on a flight he would never have ordinarily allowed. Given her accomplishments and her clear talents, the circumstances prompting her mad flight to Port Lucy must be severe.
It wasn’t his concern, and he couldn’t fathom why he cared one way or the othe
r about her intentions. He had troubles enough of his own to manage. Thinking of that brought to mind something she’d said when she had tried to convince him she could be an asset.
“You’re an empath, and you deal with predatory shifters both in animal and human form, yes?”
She blinked at the change of subject. “Yes. I offer therapy for clients who need help adjusting to relationships or family life. Many people don’t begin shifting until adulthood. I also hunt criminal shifters when necessary, help bring them to justice.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which is part of my contention with Nigel Crowe. I refuse to turn over to the Committee people whose crimes are minor. Most local constabulary agree with me and don’t force people onto the registry unless the crimes are severe. Harmful.”
“It occurs to me that you may be able to help, should the need arise.”
“How so?”
“You’ll note, I’m sure, that Full Moon Phase is a scant three weeks out. A little less.”
She nodded.
“I never undertake flights with certain passengers aboard that span that three-day window. This trip marches uncomfortably close to that deadline.”
“I did wonder.”
“Our three friends who travel with us now were supposed to have departed last week on an entirely different airship. One with different accommodations in case of emergency. Last week, a component in that ship’s engine room malfunctioned and caused systemic failure. We’re still working to fix it, but there was no time. Quince, Bonadea, and Lewis were being pressured from the PSRC’s security control. It wouldn’t be long before false charges were drummed up and filed, harassment of the families increased—it wasn’t safe.”
He rubbed the knot at the base of his neck. “I scraped this trip together last minute, but the extra accommodations—large, secure, caged rooms—are unavailable.”
“So if we experience the slightest delay and one or all of the men shift, there is no containment.”
“Exactly.”
She paled and swallowed. “Yes, I see.” She exhaled. “And shifting hours for predators are from midnight to six.”
“Indeed.” He frowned, confused. “Are you afraid? I agree the circumstances are not optimal, but in the worst case, we could at least get out of the sky, spend a few hours on the water . . .”
“No, I’m not afraid.” She laughed a little, almost to herself. “That is the problem at home, too. Those shifting hours—when I most need to be available.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
She smiled at him. “Another bridge we shall cross when we arrive there.”
“Dr. Cooper, are you suggesting you will be unable to help if we have an emergency?”
She sighed. “No, I shall be fine. Everything is fine.”
“Everything does not sound ‘fine.’” His frustration mounted. “Enough of the cryptic comments and nonsense. If there is an issue that would have an adverse effect on me or the souls in my care, I must know what it is.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. “I fall asleep at midnight and do not awaken for six hours. No exceptions.”
He stared. “No exceptions? It seems to me you chose the wrong profession if you refuse to work those critical hours for three scant days per month!”
“No, it’s not that I refuse!” She made an exasperated sound and stood, her hand on her forehead. She walked a few steps and faced him, leaning against the windows at her back. “I have been cursed. With a spell. I lose consciousness at midnight, and I cannot awaken until six. I sleep as though dead. That is my problem. That is what I must fix. And if I cannot be awake, I cannot do my job. It’s my company, I founded it, I train students, I tutor them in the field—there are aspects of the business that I cannot entrust to anyone else, and I must be out among the people in order to know exactly how to approach each individual situation, to be helpful to my clients, to hunt murderous shifters that others are unable to track. And what of the rest of my life? Suppose I should ever actually have a family?”
Her voice broke, and she looked down, her cheeks flushed. She’d not wanted to admit any of it to him, that was certain. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“The person in Port Lucy is the one who cast the spell?”
She nodded.
“What was the reason?”
“I’d rather not say,” she mumbled.
“And what does the cure involve?”
“That is why I cannot make plans for my return home. I don’t know what the cure will entail. I don’t know how long it will take, what I shall have to do, where it needs to be done. I don’t know if she can say a few words of magick and throw some rat bones at me and I will be cured, or if I shall have to walk the entirety of the Great Wall of China backwards while fasting.” She spread her hands wide. “I don’t know! And not knowing is making me mad as a hatter.”
“How much time do you have?”
She shrugged listlessly. “If I do not obtain and enact the cure within the next eight weeks, it becomes permanent.”
Her pronouncement hung heavy in the air between them, and he understood her need to blackmail her way onto his ship. His lips quirked, and she narrowed her eyes.
“My predicament amuses you, Captain Pickett?”
“I understand now the reason for your subterfuge.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose as we are compatriots of a sort, you needn’t call me ‘Captain Pickett.’”
She nodded, surprised. “Very well.”
“Pickett is fine.”
Her mouth hung slack and then she closed it. “Well then, you should call me ‘Cooper.’” She lifted the corner of her mouth into a half-smile. “Does this mean you’ll return my weapons?”
Isla left the captain, feeling lighter. She’d not realized how heavy her burden had been, how much Hazel had been a support for her, a place to express her fears. Even though the captain hadn’t found a magical solution to her dilemma, it was immeasurably reassuring to have confided in him. She fought a grin. “Pickett,” indeed. It was as though she were now one of the men.
Pickett may not be entirely approachable or warm at first glance, but she trusted him. And he’d promised to return her weapons. She missed her throwing knife and the thigh holster she always had settled in place.
With the day to herself, she decided to explore the ship. As she wandered the common areas, she saw the captain’s personality reflected in the deep, rich tones of the timber, the masculine, solid craftsmanship that combined strength with form. The smallest details—trim around doors and along the hallways, new Tesla lamps fastened to the walls—none of it was fussy or ornate. It suited him, she decided as she descended to the middle deck, which was bisected lengthwise by a narrow hallway. To the right were passenger cabins; to the left, a library, a lounge, and the infirmary.
The door to the lounge was open, and she spied Mr. Quince and Mr. Bonadea comparing notes. She wondered if they were truly working together on a project in Port Lucy or if it had been a story concocted for her sake and Nigel Crowe’s.
Thoughts of her nemesis soured her mood, and she frowned as she passed the library and descended another level to the engine rooms and cargo hold. It was loud, but the genius of the Stirling Engine cut the noise of a regular airship by three-quarters. She stepped inside the large room, keeping to the perimeter and away from the six ’tons who operated the engine.
Two of the ’tons maintained a steady level of the oil necessary for the engine’s heating component, and she stood aside and watched the process, impressed by their efficiency and with the sheer size of the engine. And this was a small ship!
She observed a moment longer, then returned to the dark hallway. The doors to the cargo hold were locked for safety purposes, which she didn’t mind in the least. She’d told Pickett that she’d been prepared to stay in there if that was her only
option, but she had to admit an irrational fear of the place. Cargo holds were loud, cold, and typically dark.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she suddenly felt uneasy. She turned away from the cargo hold door to find Nigel Crowe standing behind her, quietly watching. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she put her hand on her waist atop her extra knife.
He took a long drag on a cheroot, smiled, and released a plume of smoke.
“What are you doing, Mr. Crowe?” Her voice was steady, pitched low and soft as she reverted to years’ worth of training and practice.
“Taking a tour of the ship, much as you are, I assume.”
She kept her fingers relaxed. “But what are you doing, Mr. Crowe? Why are you here?”
“It’s not safe for a woman to be wandering alone on a ship filled with men and automatons.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Why are you aboard this ship? What in Port Lucy takes you away from London right this minute?”
His eyes narrowed, and his smile faded. “Important business.”
“I would love to hear about it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Her heart thumped. She suspected he truly meant harm to the three shifters aboard, but she wasn’t certain how or when because he was so frustratingly impossible to read.
“Perhaps I can lend a hand. I understand your responsibilities on the Committee better than most.”
He chuckled. “You thwart my responsibilities at every turn, Miss Cooper.”
“Not at all. I am more than willing, as you are aware, to apprehend violent criminal shifters and turn them over for trial. You also know I willingly testify against those who deserve it; I have seen you at more than one tribunal.”
He studied her for a long, unnerving moment. “Your refusal to notify the Committee of every predatory shifter you encounter has led to destruction of property and life.”
Every muscle tightened, and she tried to relax, keep her stance easy. “One death. One accidental death.”
He waved a hand. “Sémantique. There is a reason for the registry, Miss Cooper, and that is to protect your fellow countrymen and countrywomen. You put potentially dangerous criminals above innocent citizens.”
Kiss of the Spindle Page 5