The Machine (Blood and Destiny Book 1)

by E. C. Jarvis

  Larissa tried to hide the shudder that coursed through her body as they approached. She’d hoped to never have to go into that room again. The dungeon, her chamber of torment, and the monstrous beast of a man whom the room now contained, were more terrifying to her than any of her worst nightmares. Grubbs pushed off the wall and brandished the key to the padlock at Larissa as she approached.

  “Thank you, Grubbs.” She pushed the key into the lock as Holt drew out a pair of knives. The other man behind them muttered to Grubbs, “Bloody hell, you got a thank you, and she remembered your name.”

  Larissa made a mental note to try to remember the names of the other men they’d acquired as crew, especially if they were going to regard her as their Captain—though she couldn’t quite fathom why they’d assume she was in charge instead of Holt.

  Holt pushed the door open; at first there was no sign of anyone inside. The severed rope still hung from the rusty hook in the ceiling, swinging to and fro with the ship’s movements; a lump caught in Larissa’s throat as she saw it. Behind a stack of broken boxes the floorboards were stained red with blood and she wondered at how much of it was her own.

  As they moved forward they found Hans slumped over behind a box, clutching his groin with both hands, his head hung low. Trails of blood leached out of the wounds on his arm and chest and leaked into a pool on the floor. He did not acknowledge their presence; his chest still rose and fell with slow breaths. Holt pushed in front of Larissa and bent down to collect the broken piece of rope. He kicked Hans’ leg and the large man lolled over, bumping against the wall. His eyes were closed and sunken into their sockets, and he let out a low groan.

  Holt bent down and pulled Hans’ arms out from beneath him, binding his wrists in one motion, and dragged Hans onto his back. Then he pinned his arms to the floor behind his head. The bigger man did not protest, though his eyes did open and his gaze fell directly onto Larissa, who had inched closer. She felt an extra boost of courage with the protection of Holt at her side.

  “Is he dying?” she asked Holt, though she knew the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “Many hours.”

  “You hear that, you disgusting brute?”

  “Unnhuh,” Hans grunted, his eyes rolling.

  “That means I only have one thing to offer you—a swift end in exchange for some information.”

  “Ju vihiduos,” Hans muttered in his native tongue. Larissa didn’t need to speak the language to understand that it was not a message of compliance.

  “Very well.” She marched towards the door and Holt followed, understanding her plan. It wasn’t until the door was slammed shut and the padlock jingled loudly enough to sound as though it were being locked that Hans called out, “wait!”

  The hint of a smile threatened the corner of Larissa’s lips and she pondered whether satisfaction qualified as an emotion. They returned to the room to find that Hans hadn’t even managed to move his hands from where Holt had left them.

  “You changed your mind?” Larissa asked.

  “Give me your word,” Hans said.

  “What?”

  “That you will end it, quickly, no more pain.”

  “I give you my word, you bastard,” Holt chimed in.

  “I don’t trust him. I want your word.”

  “Very well, you have my word. Now you will answer my questions. Is the Professor still alive?”

  “Last I saw him, he was...alive.”

  “Where is Doctor Orother taking him?”

  “He has a mansion at Meridina, on Clockman Peak.”

  “What did he want with Cid?”

  “Professor killed his engineer.”

  “Oh.” A small sense of pleasure tickled the back of her head at the thought that the Professor had disrupted Doctor Orother’s plans. Though as the first real emotion seeped in, it threatened to open the floodgates and send her tumbling into a sobbing mess.

  “How many guards at the mansion?” Holt asked when Larissa had fallen silent. Hans did not answer.

  “How many guards?” Larissa repeated.

  “Five.” Holt and Larissa exchanged glances. It was a rather obvious lie.

  “What will Orother do to the Professor?” she asked, instantly regretting the question. What had she expected him to say? That the Professor would be well-tended? Treated to three hot meals a day and given steaming baths?

  “He will be trained.” Despite his dilapidated state, Hans still managed to crack a sickening smile.

  Larissa stared down at the man at her feet. The room fell flatly silent as the conversation reached its obvious end. She had killed twice already, but this felt different. This man, however awful he was, lay at her feet waiting to be put out of his misery. She’d given her word on it. She ran it over and over in her mind—who would know of her broken promise besides Holt if she just walked away and left Hans to bleed to death? She figured Holt would understand and not even judge, but could she forgive herself? Did the cruelty of this man justify her turning into a cruel woman? Hans stared up at her. The look was not pleading, though there was a question in his eyes, a question that demanded an answer.

  Larissa held out her palm towards Holt. Without a word he handed her a knife and took a few steps back toward the door.

  Hans bent his head backwards, opening a target on his neck, and Larissa knelt down beside him, bringing up the knife. Movement in the doorway caught her eye.

  Holt lunged forwards but he was too slow. Hans whipped his hands up, catching Larissa’s wrist and pulling the knife free. Then he rolled over, pushed her to the ground, and pinned her with his weight.

  Excruciating pain shot through her shoulder as Hans plunged the knife straight through until it stuck in the floor. She let out a blood-curdling scream. His body, hot and heavy, heaved across her torso, his salivating lips drooling onto her face.

  Holt reached them, throwing himself into Hans to push him off. Holt ended the trauma, stabbing Hans in the throat over and over until the gurgling and spitting of blood ceased.

  Larissa closed her eyes, her body trembled, and for some odd reason she felt her toes tingling. Within the blackness that threatened to swallow her whole, she heard Holt cursing. Finally, a sense of calm spilled over her mind again like a cool summer breeze.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Larissa stared up at the dark wood ceiling in the pirate Captain’s cabin. It was an unpleasant, dingy place that smelled of damp and tobacco ash; nothing like the refined cabin on board The Larissa. She’d been laid out atop the Captain’s desk, charts and trinkets scattered across the floor beneath. A set of Emperor playing cards spread haphazardly across the desk’s surface.

  Holt and Cid were nearby, making some sort of preparations and arguing amongst themselves. Imago appeared and jumped up, depositing himself upon her chest. She reached up with her uninjured arm to scratch the top of his head, somewhat confused at how he’d managed to get aboard and survive the carnage unscathed, yet certainly grateful that he had. Imago purred and curled into a ball as if to sleep.

  “Fucking cat. Get off!” Cid yelled, marching over. Imago immediately jumped down and scurried away.

  “Cid...”

  “No, don’t you Cid me. You’re injured. You don’t want cat hair getting into the wound. I’m going to fix you up.”

  “We’ve discussed this. I will do the stitching.” Holt followed, depositing a tarnished silver plate containing gauze, a needle, and thread.

  “I don’t trust you,” Cid said.

  “I came back and slaughtered a ship full of pirates to save the pair of you.”

  “To save yourself, more like.”

  “Bring the water and the liquor.”

  “Piss off. I’m not your serving girl. Go get it yourself.”

  “You keep talking to me like that and I’ll cut you into a serving girl.”

  “Gentlemen,” Larissa interrupted, “as amusing as you two are to watch, I’d really appreciat
e if we could get this over with.”

  “Sorry,” they answered in unison. Cid disappeared to the back to collect the water and liquor, and Holt leaned over Larissa to pull open her jacket.

  “This needs to come off.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. Larissa usually avoided being nude even when alone in her bedroom. Now it seemed to be a frequent occurrence in front of strange men.

  At least these two don’t want to beat me to a pulp and rape me.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Cid’s voice reached a pitch that usually would have required a kick in the groin. He slammed the bottles on the desk.

  “I can’t stitch the wound if the garment is in the way.”

  “Well, just cut a hole in it around the shoulder. You don’t have to get the poor girl nude.”

  “There are other wounds that need tending.”

  “So? Come back to them after. She’s been through enough of this shit, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Cid...” Larissa’s voice was calm and quiet. “I need someone to keep an eye on the others.”

  Cid’s mouth dropped; it was a dismissal, albeit a polite one. Larissa expected him to argue further, but he simply hunched his shoulders, passed Holt a dark glare, and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “I’ll have to apologize to him for that, later.”

  “A Captain shouldn’t apologize to his...her crew. Orders are orders.”

  “And is that what I am? The Captain?”

  “So it would seem.” Holt leaned over again and opened the jacket. Larissa closed her eyes once more, instantly feeling the cool air trickling across her hot flesh. The other side opened and she was bare to the world, bare to him.

  A thought hummed at the back of her psyche; a comparison between the shame she’d felt when the pirates had ripped the clothes from her body and the experience she was having now. It was as though her brain tried to express emotion, but whatever part necessary for that was still shut down and numb.

  “Gods.” Holt’s voice wavered in the air above her. She wasn’t sure if he was shocked at the beaten state of her body, or perhaps simply reacting to her nudity—and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know which it was. She kept her eyes shut and tried to suppress the fact that she could feel her nipples hardening in the cold air.

  An eternity seemed to pass where nothing happened. She strained to hear him moving; he had a knack for stealthy silence. Larissa shivered at the anticipation of his touch against her flesh, but it didn’t come. Just as she toyed with the idea of opening her eyes for a peek, she felt him slowly easing the jacket off her wounded shoulder. It hurt, as though a hot poker peeled away broken flesh, and she winced, biting down on her bottom lip to keep from shouting out.

  “Gods,” Holt said again, this time more pronounced.

  “What is it?” Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at his face. He looked confused, rubbing a hand across his stubbly chin. His gaze moved over every inch of her body, running up and down, again and again. She tried not to imagine the horrific sight he must have seen—bruises of every color, crusted blood, and Gods only knew what else.

  “Is it really that bad? Why aren’t you sewing me up?”

  “No need.”

  “What?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Frowning, she lifted her head to look down at the shoulder wound, expecting to see a great, gaping hole dripping with blood and gore. The blood and gore were there, although instead of a hole there was a fresh layer of scar tissue, pink and clean, a perfectly straight line in the place where the blade had penetrated.

  She pushed up on her elbows and looked down to the rest of her body. There were bruises and cuts, though they were light and fading. The heaviest bruises had turned to faint yellow patches, each cut replaced by another fresh, pink scar. She looked as though weeks had passed since she’d suffered the abuse, rather than mere hours.

  Larissa sat for a time, propped on her elbows, assessing her body with a newfound interest. Holt did the same; his fascination was such that he even reached out to lightly prod at a scab on her belly.

  “You know, I usually prefer to know a man a little better before I let him get me nude on a table to poke at me.”

  “Hmm,” was all he managed by way of retort, and his physical exploration continued across her chest.

  “I suppose my injuries weren’t as bad as I’d first thought, though I was sure that knife went straight through.”

  “Your injuries were significant. You should be in extreme pain and several of these should have only just scabbed over. There should still be a large hole in your shoulder.” His fingers explored up her belly, over her right breast, onto her shoulder and there he pushed at the fresh scar.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry.” Despite the apology he did not stop prodding. She sat up fully, turning to the side.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How long have you had the Anthonium?”

  “The stone? My mother died two years ago. She left it to me.”

  “Stored in the lock box?”

  “No, that was Cid’s idea. It was a necklace.”

  “And you wore it?”

  “All the time.”

  “Ah. That probably explains it.”

  “It does? Wait, how did you know it was Anthonium in the box?”

  “You told me.”

  “I did?”

  “When you called me a creepy guy.”

  “Oh.” A familiar feeling came over Larissa, and she realized she was blushing. Head to chest her pale skin tingled, feeling like she’d been burned by the sun. As though she had just woken up from a dream, she became aware of her nudity and the fact that she’d turned to face him, her legs dangling off the desk edge with him positioned in between. As she tried to shy away, scooting backwards across the desk, he gripped her arm and his examination moved across her face, where she’d taken several blows to her chin and cheek. She tried to reignite the conversation, to talk through the embarrassment.

  “So, Anthonium has healing properties?”

  “Anthonium has many properties, so they say. It’s so rare that people don’t really know much about it, except...”

  “Except what?”

  “That long-term exposure is deadly.”

  “Oh.” Her head sunk down as she thought of her mother, suffering on her death bed from some disease they couldn’t name, and too many painful truths became terribly clear. She felt a need growing inside, a need for comfort, for something warm and safe, for something powerful and emotional. Holt lifted her chin with his finger and looked her directly in the eye, his gaze intense behind a blank expression.

  “Perhaps two years is just enough exposure to be beneficial.”

  Her lips parted and a hot breath escaped. Something unnameable settled between them and her nudity seemed oddly appropriate. Holt inched backwards, dropping his hand.

  “Holt...”

  “It seems the ability to heal quickly will be a great aid to you in finding your Professor.”

  “He’s not my Professor.” She gripped his hand and pulled him back, and he did not resist. Slowly, with a slight tremble in her arm, she placed his hand upon her breast. They stayed still, in perfect tableau for a moment, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. The burning across her skin intensified. His expression softened and he leaned down, pushing his lips onto hers. She reciprocated, their kiss hungry with unexpected desire.

  Holt bent over, pressing her back onto the desk, and his hands explored her body now with renewed purpose. She reached up and knotted her fingertips through his hair and he moved downwards, planting a line of hot, rough kisses along her chin and neck. His hands swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, and then he sat back on his heels atop the desk, flinging his shirt to the floor.

  Her gaze darted across the breadth of his torso, bruised and covered in cuts from the fighting. Beneath the cuts and aged scar-lines was firm, taut skin, bulging with hard muscles. A line of black hair stretc
hed from his navel to his trouser top, which he now unbuttoned, too.

  A dark thought threatened as the Professor flashed through her mind. How many nights had she spent dreaming of him in this position? Was this an unfaithful act? Was she even ready for this kind of intimacy with a man she barely knew a thing about so quickly after the horrific events she’d just experienced? As Holt removed his trousers, she closed her eyes, the thoughts of the Professor and her insecurity threatening to bring tears. Her mind began to second-guess the moment, but her body begged, screaming for it to continue.

  Holt brushed his thumb down her cheek and her eyes opened again. A tear had escaped.

  “We don’t have to...” he said with a furrowed brow.

  “Please.” The word emerged as a breathy whisper and she hated the sound of it. It sounded weak and pathetic, as if she were begging. She sucked in a deep breath and forced aside the plague of doubts in her head. She wanted this, needed this, and nothing was going to stop her from getting it.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, voice strong and determined.

  “You’re sure?” Holt’s eyes wandered down her body, the appraisal sending a spark of heat between her legs. For the first time she looked down and saw him, how close he was, and how ready he was, his erection poised between her legs. She tucked her arm between their bodies and gripped him gently, choosing to answer with action.

  Holt squeezed his eyes shut and let out a deep moan. She studied his reactions, as slight as they were. The mere thought of giving him pleasure brought her close to the edge of orgasm. The ability to strip him of the façade, even for a moment, made her feel more powerful than anything. He bent forward, capturing her lips with a rough and needy kiss. Then he moved down, trailing his lips along her neck, placing kisses down her chest, pausing at her breast with a long lash of his tongue across her nipple. His hand reached up and lightly gripped her throat as he moved across to offer the same treatment to the other side, adding a slight nip with his teeth. His attention sent bolts of pleasure throughout her body, every inch of her flesh coming alive with sensation. He dipped to the side and hooked her knee across his shoulder as his lips moved downward even further.