by Zoë Archer
“Fight it,” Sam growled at the Marines. “Fight his control.”
But the soldiers’ eyes remained empty. They were only husks obeying Broadwell’s commands. And they would continue to do so, their minds trapped within their undead bodies, witnessing the horrors they would be forced to commit.
Sam would make sure that didn’t happen.
With a groan, he freed his legs and climbed back into the magazine. Flames engulfed two of the remaining bulkheads, and the fuse slowly burned. The flame inched closer to the kegs of gunpowder. He cursed. If the Marines didn’t tear his limbs from his body, the explosion would turn them all into pulp staining the water. Once, Sam believed all he wanted was an end to this existence. Now, with Cassandra’s face glittering in his mind, he fought for survival.
Impassive faces of the undead appeared in the doorway. Hands clawed at the door frame.
Sam drew his sword. He slashed at the forearms of the officers. One grunted as the sword cut cleanly through his arm, severing the limb just above the wrist. No blood spouted from the wound, but the amputated hand fell away, tumbling into darkness.
The soldier’s hand would regenerate, but the explosion would happen long before. And nothing could regenerate after that. Not even Sam.
Obeying a silent directive, the Marines clambered over each other, trying to reach Sam. They had no regard for the men they used as leverage, nor did the soldiers yelp in pain as boots smashed into their backs and faces. Pain meant almost nothing to their kind. Yet Sam felt it now—not as much as if he were still alive—but he’d changed since making love with Cassandra, so that his arms and legs burned with regained awareness.
The officers pulled themselves into the magazine.
Sam did not wait. He swept out with his sword. A soldier’s head toppled from his shoulders. His body pitched back, through the open doorway. The other Marines paid no attention, but kept advancing with their own drawn swords.
Again and again, Sam’s sword sliced through the air, hacking at the advancing soldiers and dodging their own blades. They ignored the numerous cuts they took to their faces and bodies, as he did. But when Sam plowed his sword into their heads, grisly magic no longer animated their bodies. They fell like the corpses they were, knocking against the wooden floors and bulkheads until they were swallowed by the sea below.
Only two Marines attacked him now. And the fuse burned even closer to the powder kegs. With a roar and burst of strength, Sam lunged, severing one’s head and then driving the tip of his sword through the eye of the other. Both officers fell to the ground, immobile. Sam was free.
He wasted no time, climbing back through the groaning, burning carcass of the ship toward the stern. He disregarded the pain in his limbs as he went up. There wasn’t time to marvel at the new wonder of pain.
At last, he reached the remains of the captain’s quarters and hauled himself through the cabin. The indigo night sky shone through the broken windows, stars like distant dreams, perfectly indifferent to everything beneath.
Sam grasped the casement and dragged himself upward, until he stood on the edge of the window. Waves battered the hull.
He sent one glance below him into the ruined ship. In the wreckage within the dark sea, a hundred undead men had been resurrected, torn from the solace of death for an unholy purpose. If they made it to the surface, Broadwell would use them to commit atrocities until a merciful blade removed their heads.
It could have been Sam. It had been Sam.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the men and all those within the ship. Then, with his sword strapped to his back, he stood. He looked back at the shore and could still see no sign of Cassandra, then movement higher above caught his eye. Rage decimated every other thought. There, atop the promontory, she struggled. Against Broadwell.
Get to her, his every instinct screamed. Protect her. Sam dove into the water.
The ship exploded.
Chapter Six
A massive detonation tore the night open. The partially submerged wreckage of the transport ship erupted into a colossal ball of fire. The sound of the crashing waves disappeared beneath a roaring explosion—the force of which rocked both Cassandra and Broadwell as they struggled on the promontory.
One thought screamed in Cassandra’s mind: Sam. Had he escaped the ship before the explosion? Or was he lost, destroyed with the ship and the undead soldiers?
God, she couldn’t let herself think of that now. She must believe he had survived and stay focused on her goal: retrieve the Source.
Broadwell’s grip on her loosened as another detonation burst from the wreckage. She immediately freed one of her hands. She had to take the lead, deliberately and definitively. She wasn’t Broadwell’s passive victim. Her thumb reached beneath Broadwell’s dark spectacles and jammed hard into his eye.
He howled, reeling back. As he clutched at his face, Cassandra took advantage of his confused, weakened state. She leapt onto him.
They struggled as she frantically searched Broadwell. Her hands delved into his pockets, the gaps in his clothing, concentrating on finding the Source. The water and sky formed a luridly glowing backdrop, flames from the destroyed ship reaching high into the darkness. Nothing and no one could have survived such an explosion.
No—think only of the Source, whatever it might be.
Broadwell began to shake off the effects of her attack. Still somewhat clumsy, he pushed at her as she searched through his clothes. A powder horn, a folding knife, coins. No Source. Where was it?
“Get off me, you stupid whore,” he slurred.
She refused to answer him, even as his shoving grew stronger. He dug his elbow into her spine and she winced in pain. But she wouldn’t stop her search.
Wait—there! An inside pocket of his coat. Her hand touched a small pouch of coarse fabric. Sewn to the outside of the pouch were what felt like feathers and beads. She couldn’t tell what was within the small bag, though it felt like dried plants and pebbles. Energy radiated from it, a palpable sensation of power that ran all the way up her arm to resonate throughout her body. The resounding, dark connection that delineated the boundaries between life and death. Most assuredly this was the Source.
Just as her fingers closed around the pouch, Broadwell’s crushing grip encircled her wrist.
She stared up at his enraged face, his mouth contorted in a snarl. He’d recovered from her attack and looked ready to smash his other fist into her face. Cassandra braced herself for the blow, but wouldn’t release the Source. He’d have to knock her out cold before she let it go.
As Broadwell raised his hand to strike, someone behind her slammed a fist right into his jaw. Broadwell stumbled to the edge of the promontory, away from Cassandra. She glanced down at her hand. In her tight grip nestled the pouch.
She whirled around to face Broadwell’s attacker. She couldn’t contain her gasp of astonishment and profound relief.
“Sam,” she breathed.
He stood, clothes torn, soaking wet, tall and lethal as he glowered at Broadwell. His sword glinted on his back. In the moonlight, his eyes glowed with merciless fury, his shoulders broad and bunching with unleashed rage. If she did not know that Sam was her ally, Cassandra would have been terrified by the sight he made. Yet, even understanding that he was her friend, she took an involuntary step backward.
“Did he hurt you?” he growled at her.
“Not much,” she answered. She held out her hand. “I have the Source.”
He gave a curt nod, less concerned with the magical object than with her. Reaching out, he wrapped one arm around Cassandra and pulled her close. “You truly all right?” he rumbled.
“Yes, yes.” She clutched the Source to her chest but stared up at him, an avenging spirit from the depths of the sea, as he glared at Broadwell, who straightened as he stood at the edge of the promontory. “The son of a bitch didn’t get the opportunity. And you’re alive.”
“Not alive,” Sam corrected with a wry quirk of his mouth. “But here with
you.” His attention fixed on Broadwell. “Those men are at rest now,” he snarled at his former commanding officer. “And you won’t desecrate anyone else.”
Broadwell straightened as he recovered. “Should have left you dead,” he sneered.
“I’d agree,” Sam replied, “but then I wouldn’t get the chance to do this.”
Sam pulled a gun from Cassandra’s pocket with a motion so fast, she barely saw it. He leveled the pistol at Broadwell. Then shot him directly through the heart. As he’d been shot and killed three years before.
Instead of toppling over, Broadwell simply looked down at the smoking wound in his chest. No blood stained the fabric of his now-torn waistcoat. He glanced back up at Sam and Cassandra with a smirk.
“What—?” she gasped.
Broadwell pulled the dark spectacles from his face and tucked them neatly into an inside pocket. His eyes glowed, white and otherworldly.
Sam cursed, lowering the pistol.
“Come now,” Broadwell chuckled. “Why should you undead chaps get all the fun?”
“Fun?” Sam growled. “Fun?”
“Was that your scheme, all along?” Cassandra demanded. “Turn yourself into…into…”
“A zombie,” Broadwell finished, verging on cheerful. “No, that wasn’t part of my plan. But after Reed here broke away from me and the others, there was a skirmish with some Russians and I took a mortal wound.” He pulled at his high collar to reveal a huge, jagged gash running across his throat.
“So I transformed myself.” He grinned, a death’s head. Cassandra shuddered at the sight, and the vicious glee in Broadwell’s voice. “Don’t know what all your fuss was about, Reed. All this strength and power. Indestructibility. Bloody wonderful.”
“Not without free will,” Sam gritted back. “And not at the cost of a normal life.”
Broadwell snorted. “Who wants normal when the world is ours for the taking? And it can be ours, Reed. Ours, and the Heirs of Albion.” His tone took on a wheedling note. He took a step closer and pointed at the pouch still gripped in Cassandra’s hand. “With us both in possession of the Source, there’s nothing we cannot do, nothing we can’t have.”
Sam stared at him, the only sounds emanating from the burning ship and waves crashing against the shore.
A brief panic from Cassandra. Could Sam be tempted by Broadwell’s offer? Many other men would.
Sam drew his sword, the blade hissing as it slid from the scabbard.
“I want my goddamned life back.” He glanced down at Cassandra, and pain flashed across the hard lines of his face. “I want what I can’t have.”
Broadwell sighed and shook his head. “Never figured you for the sentimental type, Major Reed.”
“When your head’s decorating my mantel,” Sam said as he pushed Cassandra behind him, “I won’t feel very sentimental.” He raised his sword.
Broadwell stepped back, keeping his distance. “Tonight isn’t the end, Reed.” He turned his glowing eyes to Cassandra. “The next time we meet, I won’t be alone. The Heirs will retake the Source. And I think,” he added with a grin, “you’ll make a marvelous zombie, Miss Fielding. You’ll have so many uses.”
Sam lunged forward with a growl.
Broadwell took another step backward. He disappeared over the lip of the promontory.
As Cassandra and Sam rushed to the edge, all they saw was Broadwell vanishing into the waves far below. They watched as swift currents carried him away, along the coastline. He’d escaped. For now.
More cursing grated from Sam. “The bastard keeps slipping away.”
“But the Source is ours.” She tucked the pouch into her pocket, then turned to him and pressed her hands against his chest, feeling the solid strength of him. “And you survived. I saw you fighting with those soldiers, and then, when the ship went, I didn’t know…” All the fear she hadn’t allowed herself to feel came hastening back, until she felt dizzy and sick with it.
She leaned her head against him, and his wet fingers wove into her hair, gently easing it to one side. He pressed his lips to the bared nape of her neck. “A hell of a fight,” he murmured. “Only thoughts of you kept me from defeat.”
Her heart pounded thickly in her throat. She felt herself overwhelmed. Too many emotions collided within her. Turning her head slightly, she watched the burning wreckage of the ship as it and its blighted passengers turned to sodden ash.
“Those poor souls,” she whispered.
Straightening to his full height, he kept his hand softly cupped around her nape. “Not ‘poor souls,’” he said, his voice oddly muted. “The fortunate ones. They now have the peace I long for.”
Sudden anger roared through her. She shoved him back. “Damn you, Sam Reed.”
He jolted in surprise, staring down at her with puzzlement.
Once the slightest trickle of emotion escaped from the dam of her control, Cassandra could not stop the flood. Everything she had felt that night but suppressed—fear, rage, relief, despair, joy—all seethed and spiraled within her so that she no longer could distinguish one feeling from the other. They merged into a roiling miasma.
She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. She knew only the sensation of her blood pounding through her body, an awareness of her flesh—and a swift sensual hunger that stole her breath.
On this isolated promontory, she and Sam existed outside of time and space. Nothing—the burning ship, Broadwell—could touch them, harm them. They were far above everything, enclosed within the safety and danger of desire.
She breached the distance she’d put between her and Sam, striding up to him as he watched her, wary. When she plunged her fingers into his slick, wet hair and tugged his head down to hers, he was too surprised to resist. And for only a moment, he was motionless as she pulled his cool, firm lips to her own for a demanding kiss.
Only a moment’s stillness. Then he met her savagery with his own. They plundered each other’s mouths, a hungry consuming of growing heat and humid desire. A challenge and affirmation, each struggling to dominate and be dominated. Her arms twined around his neck. He must have sheathed his sword, because his broad hands came up to grip her waist, hauling her tight against him.
His skin and clothing were soaking wet, yet she didn’t care. She felt only the hard, unyielding strength of his body snug against hers, a firm wall of muscle against which she gladly battered herself. In an instant, her own garments clung damply to her body, along her thighs, her belly and breasts.
Against her stomach rose the insistent, thick press of his arousal. She pushed her hips into his, urged on by a need that robbed her of everything but desire. They growled into each other’s mouths.
When his hand came up to cup her swollen breast, her nipple tightening, she moaned her approval. Yet, even with her clothing wet and clinging, revealing nearly everything, too much separated her and Sam. She pulled back enough to undo the buttons of her bodice. His impatient fingers helped, and in short order, she’d bared herself from the waist up.
His glowing gaze fastened hungrily on her naked breasts. She’d forgone her corset when dressing earlier, and now blessed that decision.
“I want you everywhere,” she rasped. She hardly recognized her own voice, low and throaty, but she did not care. “On me, inside me. Now.” In this, she refused denial.
Sam stared down into her eyes, warming himself with the heat and demand he found there. The amber depths gleamed with such desire, he almost believed she had a magic of her own. She did have magic—calling forth from him the needs of his long-numb body and heart.
He’d spoken without thinking before. He had said the now-destroyed Marines finally achieved the peace he wanted. Once, that was all he craved. Now—he wanted her. Only her. However he could.
The Cassandra he once knew had been a headstrong girl. And the woman he’d come to desire possessed an intractable will. But this woman looking up at him with undisguised sexual hunger tolerated nothing but complete submission.
Sam stood taller than her. He easily outweighed her and could, if he so desired, toss her aside like so much thistledown. They both knew this. Yet the prospect of yielding to her, giving her his body and everything else for her pleasure, excited him tremendously. At her bold words, his cock thickened, straining to give her exactly what she wanted.
“I’m yours,” he growled.
She drew in a sharp breath, then tugged his head toward her breasts. At once, he took a silky stiff nipple into his mouth. His tongue lapped and circled, drawing on her, and she hissed with pleasure as she pulled him even closer. He stroked her other breast with his hand, feeling the perfect, satiny weight, teasing her to writhing.
“Touch me, Sam,” she gasped.
They sank down to their knees, neither noticing the hard ground, aware of nothing but each other. He gathered up her skirts, the fabric bunching as his hand delved beneath. At the feel of her smooth, slim leg, he rumbled his praise. He drew his palm up, along the length of her thigh. With a grateful snarl, he realized she wore no drawers. Beneath her skirts, she was entirely bare.
He filled his hands with the luscious curves of her arse, then trailed one palm across her belly before sliding through her damp, hot pussy. The moment his fingers dipped between her folds, she tipped her head back and moaned. She abandoned herself utterly. Up and down she moved as he stroked her, her breath coming in short, harsh pants.
The pressure in his cock was a sweet agony. He wanted only to plunge into her. But delaying his hunger made it all the sweeter. He would take her through one orgasm, and another, and another, until they both dissolved entirely from pleasure.
And she was so close, riding nearer and nearer to climax. Suddenly, she wasn’t. She shoved his hand away.
He frowned. Did she not enjoy his touch?
Yet as she leaned back, bracing herself on her elbows, her gaze smoldered. She was a predatory cat. “You’ve seen me,” she breathed. “Now it’s my turn.” Her eyes strayed to the huge ridge along the front of his trousers.
“This?” He ran one hand down the length of his cock, and groaned.