Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Lenore’s shoulders straightened even more with pride, as if the accolades were hers instead of Nettie’s. “She is a fine skyrunner captain—the best in the fleet, I daresay.”

  He couldn’t agree more, and the second he laid eyes on Nettie Widderschynnes again, he’d wring her neck like a Christmas goose. What was she thinking to even consider allowing Lenore on a battleship?

  Rain fell harder, and Lenore huddled tighter under her umbrella. “Forgive me. I’ve trapped you out here for a good soaking.”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “As I mentioned earlier, miss, it’s merely rain. I’m in no danger.” He gestured toward the cemetery entrance. “You, however, could catch your death out here. Allow me to escort you to the gates and hail transport.”

  Her soft laughter almost blunted the terror riding him at the thought of her on the Pollux. Almost. “You’re very kind, but as we’ve both witnessed, you...intimidate most people. I think a driver would whip the poor horse to a faster pace if he saw you and abandon me to my fate.” She held up a gloved hand to thwart any argument. “You may accompany me to the gate and wait there if you wish until I’ve caught a hackney or omnibus. Agreed?”

  He nodded, and they started toward Highgate’s grand entrance. Twice he gripped her elbow to keep her from slipping on the wet lanes. Her arm rested delicate and warm in his too-brief grip. What would she do were he to take her in his arms, not as Nathaniel Gordon, but as the deathless Guardian, armored and strange?

  God, he missed her.

  She bid him goodbye at the gate. “Until next time, sir, should I see you again when I visit my father.”

  “Safe journey, miss.” Come back to me, Lenore. I’ll be waiting. The words flowed through his mind and remained tightly behind his teeth. He doffed an imaginary topper at her and bowed.

  His ordinary action somehow startled her. Badly. She gasped, her eyes wide beneath her bonnet. The umbrella shook above her, and the cloth of her glove stretched tight across her knuckles where she clutched the handle in a death grip.

  “Miss Kenward?” he inquired and almost reached for her. He dropped his hand at the last moment, fingers twitching with the desire to touch her.

  Lenore blinked and shook her head before offering him a rueful half smile. “Forgive me. I remembered...” She shook her head a second time as if to clear her thoughts. Nathaniel wondered at the sudden glossiness in her eyes: tears.

  They exchanged farewells a second time before parting; he to linger in the gate’s shadow and keep watch, she to stand at the edge of the road.

  She’d been right that he intimidated others, but any driver attempting to bypass Lenore as she stood in the rain waiting for a ride would have found himself suddenly off his high seat and on his backside in a puddle while Nathaniel himself took her home. Fortunately, for all involved, an empty omnibus halted a few minutes later, for which he was grateful, and carried her away from him.

  He waited until he no longer heard the clop of hooves on cobblestone before setting off eastward to the Bishopsgate station. His reputation as a vigilant, lethal Guardian served him well. Resurrectionists hesitated to rob Highgate of its newly buried citizens during daylight, and Nathaniel didn’t think they’d try again anytime soon—at least not now when he abandoned his post to seek the person who once commanded his most devout loyalty.

  The streets were almost empty of people. Most who hadn’t found shelter indoors huddled in doorways, and none accosted him. He avoided the main roads, keeping to side lanes and squalid alleyways ankle-deep in water. If any saw him pass, they said nothing, wishing no acquaintance with an apparition possessing eyes that resembled gateways to Hell.

  Nathaniel made quick time to the train station, unencumbered by crowds. The station itself offered numerous places for him to blend or disappear, concealed by shadows and a Guardian’s unique talent for being overlooked by even the most observant gazes.

  He avoided the passenger trains. Stowing away was easiest on the freight lines run by freight guards instead of the more eagle-eyed conductor guards. He hid in an empty car on a freight bound for Maldon and its vast mooring field of airships, tapping his foot impatiently and cursing his former captain under his breath the entire journey. The trip took a little more than an hour, and he was off the train and out of the station before anyone noted his presence.

  Maldon’s airfield stretched over a flat of land next to a farmer’s fields, but this one’s crop flew instead of fed. At least a dozen airships of every size and design rocked gently at their tall mooring masts. Nathaniel paused for a moment to admire them. The sweet ache of recollection filled him. These majestic lasses had occupied his dreams since he was a boy and caused the rift between him and his family. He never regretted his course of action—to serve in the fleet instead of on the family estate—even when he fell from the Pollux’s deck and into the Atlantic’s frigid depths.

  The ache grew when he spotted his previous mistress docked at her mast tower. He knew every inch of her as intimately as he did Lenore’s own supple frame and loved both with equal ferocity. The ship’s thin metal envelope sparkled in the wet gloom, beckoning him to stroke her once more with an affectionate hand.

  He’d happily stand all night staring at her, but he came with a purpose, and it didn’t include hours of forlorn, lovesick gazes that put a green lad to shame. Mud sucked at his feet, and the fog rising off the fields didn’t wait for the rain to stop. It rose to his knees to swirl around his legs, creeping ever higher. By the time he reached the mast tower, a gray shroud enveloped him completely.

  A pea-souper only worked in the favor of thieves and murderers, and in this case, Guardians as well. The fog lapped over the Pollux’s keel, obscuring the control room gondola windows and any occupants. A clearer day and alarms would have sounded across the field, along with the warning crack of rifle shot, at the sight of him shimmying up the tower like a spider on a skeleton.

  The long spike attached to the tip of the airship’s nose aided in tethering her to the mooring mast and, much to Nettie’s disgust, earned her the nickname the Narwhal. Despite the ridicule, the steel horn had saved the Pollux numerous times, generating a buffer shield that protected her from attack by both enemy ships and the otherworldly monstrosities lurking in the dimensional rift.

  The shield was powered down, and Nathaniel used the spike as a death-defying bridge to cross onto the airship’s broad back instead of the platform the crew used to enter the ship’s interior. Rain made the metal sheathing slippery as ice. His balance was exceptional, but he grasped the cable that ran the length of the ship like a sliver of spine from some prehistoric beast and raced toward the stern. Halfway there, he used the line to sling downward, snagged a second cable stretching from one of the engine gondolas and caught his footing on the ladder leading from the gondola to an opening in the ship’s hull. He slipped inside unseen to drop silently onto a narrow catwalk.

  He breathed a longing sigh at the familiar view. The belly of the beast. Longitudinal and transverse girders filled his vision--the rigid frame that gave the ship her streamlined shape. Corded and wire netting ran from girder to girder, completing the massive metal spiderweb. The catwalk he stood on ran perpendicular to the much longer gangplank that stretched from the Pollux’s bow to her stern, suspended above the ship’s helium and empyrean-filled gasbags.

  Many a trip out, he had walked these narrow planks and climbed the girders. His fingers danced across a section of framework, following a span of varnished duralumin tubes riveted together. He imagined the Pollux sang to him down the weave of wire bracing, her metallic serenade welcoming home a much-missed, if wayward son. It was good to be near her, inside her and see her whole and undamaged once more.

  Voices originating from the rear gondola spurred him toward the ladder that spanned the distance between gasbag deck and keel corridor. He wasn’t fast enough.

  “Oy! Did you see ‘im?”

  “See what?”

  The first voice, exasperated, grew louder
. “Looked like a vicar climbing into the keel!” Disbelieving laughter followed the remark, but the chase was on.

  Nathaniel dropped from the ladder into the narrow corridor. Gaslights attached to long tubing flickered overhead and ran parallel to the speaking tube and water line. His familiarity with the ship served him well. Unless Nettie had builders gut the Pollux and change everything—which, knowing Nettie, seemed unlikely—he’d find her quarters near the ship’s bow. He just needed to reach her without encountering more of the crew.

  His luck didn’t hold. A crewwoman almost cannoned into him as she emerged from a berth doorway. Her surprised shriek set his ears to ringing as he swung around her at a dead run toward the bow. Were he truly a vicar, her colorful curses would have set his ears alight.

  He raced past crew quarters and storage rooms containing water ballasts, weaponry, fuel and food. In different circumstances, he might have laughed at the shouts behind him.

  “There’s a churchman on the ship!”

  “See? Mary saw him too!”

  “Why’s he running away?”

  “Ain’t no soul on this ship can be saved that fast.”

  Others joined the pack as more of the crew sought out the source of the commotion.

  A voice rose above the rested, its tone one of revulsion. “Bloody hell, that ain’t no vicar. It’s a bone keeper!”

  Nathaniel paused to glance briefly over his shoulder. That alone brought the foremost pursuer to a sudden halt, causing the line behind to crash into him. They went down like pins in a nine pin match. The resulting chaos bought him a few moments of reprieve but cost him his goal.

  He turned to flee again and found himself staring down the business end of a double-barreled Howdah pistol. The woman holding it in a steadfast grip resembled a ragged and beaded trull straight out of a Whitechapel crack. The cold gleam in her eyes warned she’d put a bullet in him if he so much as twitched an eyelash.

  “Mate, you’re either very lost or very stupid. This ain’t a graveyard yet, but to back-slang it onto my ship is a sure way to see you end up berthing next to the dead you watch over.”

  Nathaniel exhaled a slow breath and bowed, never breaking eye contact. “Captain Widderschynnes,” he said softly, his great affection for her surging into his voice. Surprise flickered in her flat stare. “It’s been far too long.”

  Her aim never wavered. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t recall our association.”

  He knew that tone. Step lively or be shot. “I wish to speak with you.” The crew gathered behind him, a silent, breathing beast ready to tear him apart at its mistress’s signal. “Alone.”

  One of Nettie’s eyebrows lifted in a doubtful arch. “Is that so? I’m not in the habit of having chinwags with Guardians.”

  “I’m here regarding Lenore Kenward.”

  Nettie’s finger flexed on the trigger, and Nathaniel’s body reacted. Fabric transformed to steel, encasing him from head to foot in black armor. Various cries calling upon the Almighty filled the narrow hallway.

  “‘Oly mother o’ ‘Baub!”

  “Blue damn, it’s a demon!”

  To her credit, Nettie didn’t blink, even when the only thing she saw of Nathaniel were his eyes behind a mask of plate steel. She gave orders to her crew. “Back to work and carry on proper.”

  A chorus of reluctant “Aye, Captain,” answered her, and Nathaniel listened as the crewmen backed reluctantly down the corridor, in no rush to leave Nettie alone with him.

  Her stoic expression grew annoyed. “Move it!” she snapped, and this time the running thud of boots filled the space. Nathaniel himself had to squelch his own reaction to the order and not race after them.

  His armor softened, changing back to cloth and the ensemble that many mistook as a vicar’s. She might still shoot him, but her trigger finger had relaxed. She gestured toward the door at the bow. “Walk on,” she said. “I’ll follow.”

  Once inside her quarters, she motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs facing her desk. Nettie’s quarters were exactly as he remembered, even down to the heavy silk coverlet folded neatly at the foot of her bed—a gift from the crew a decade earlier. The comfortable chamber reflected a mix of both her rank and her personal tastes—books, maps, souvenirs from her many travels, some beautiful, others macabre.

  She settled into her own chair opposite him and laid the pistol down within easy reach of her right hand. Her left hand, hidden from view, rested idle in her lap—or so she liked her visitor to believe.

  Nathaniel knew better. The danger to himself was no less now than when he stood in the corridor staring cross-eyed at the Howdah. He had no doubt Nettie’s index finger caressed the trigger of the loaded 12-gauge break-action shotgun mounted and braced under the desk, its sawn-off double barrels guaranteed to put down anyone sitting in the chair he now occupied.

  “You’ve always been a suspicious sort, Captain.” He hid a grin when her eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m no danger to you or anyone else on the Pollux.”

  “Then I suggest you crack the bell, mate, and make it quick, or I might just shoot you for playing games and wasting my time.” Her lips tightened, and she spoke the words through her teeth. Lamplight bounced off the beads in her wild hair and cast her sharp features in partial shadow.

  He nodded. Nettie never issued idle threats. “Miss Kenward told me she requested a post on this ship.”

  Nettie cocked her head to one side, puzzlement replacing hostility. “And why would she say such a thing to the Highgate Guardian? I knew you two spoke, but I didn’t think you chums.”

  The bottom of his stomach dropped out at her statement. “She mentioned me to you?” He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the idea.

  “Just today in fact. You’ve watched over her father’s grave.” Nettie’s fingers tapped out a drumming rhythm next to the Howdah. “And now you’re here, making her affairs yours. Why is that?” She perched on her chair, a harpy ready to rip his face off with her talons if she didn’t like his answer.

  “The Pollux is a risky mistress to serve on, a battleship suitable only for the most experienced crewmen. Her architect’s blue-stocking daughter has no place on such a ship, even if serving under so able a captain.”

  Nettie snorted, her suspicious gaze stripping him down to bone. “Be that true or not, what business is it of yours?”

  He struggled with how to adequately convey his fear without revealing why. “Her safety is of utmost importance to me.” He tried another tack. “I knew her parents. Jane Kenward will disapprove and Arthur Kenward’s spirit will be troubled.”

  Nathaniel knew the first to be absolute. The second--he wasn’t so sure. Arthur had given his only child a great deal of freedom when he was alive, encouraging her various exploits and thirst for adventure. His spirit might well applaud the idea of his daughter serving on the ship he designed and Nettie captained.

  “The chance to watch Jane Kenward pop a stay-lace isn’t the best way of convincing me Lenore shouldn’t come aboard.” Nettie’s hand, as free of jewelry as her hair was heavy with it, played across the Howdah’s grip. “As for Arthur, either you just told me a lie or you didn’t know the man at all.” The dead flatness returned to her voice. “I don’t like liars.”

  Clearly, almost dying once wasn’t enough for him. His fate demanded he waltz with the Reaper twice. He forced back the warning crawl of armor on his skin and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk in a casual pose. “Do you want her to meet the same end as Nathaniel Gordon?”

  Nettie’s eyes blazed. He barely heard the cracking echo of the shotgun before a round of shot pummeled him point-blank in the stomach. The chair rocked under him, and he bent over with a low wheeze, certain he’d just been kicked in the gut by a pair of Shire horses. Wet heat streamed down his torso, and silvery blood painted the strands of his loose hair where they dragged through the growing pool of gore in his lap.

  “Damnation, Nettie Eliza Whitley,” he said between gasps. “
That hurt!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A HOUSE IN MOURNING WAS more dismal than the cemetery where the dearly departed rested. Lenore hung her wet cloak and bonnet on the rack near the front door and paused to listen. Except for the steady click of the pendulum in the grandfather clock occupying one corner of the foyer, the house was quiet, shuttered in a pall of gloom.

  The soft glow of the low-burning gasolier allowed just enough light to prevent a person from tripping on the rug or the nearby stairwell in the dark. When her father was alive, it had blazed like a star caught in chains. Arthur’s death wrought many changes in the Kenward household, none of them welcome.

  The flicker of firelight danced across the surface of the parlor’s partially open door. Lenore stepped inside and spotted her mother in her usual place—one of three chairs furthest from the fireplace to prevent any stray coal dust from falling on her hem. A nearby lamp provided illumination for the stitchery on which Jane industriously plied her needle. She glanced briefly at her daughter, features pinched, before turning her attention back to her needlework.

  Lenore sighed inwardly. Tonight would be as the many nights before it—awkward conversation saturated in resentment that slowly built to a hot argument. “Hello, Mama.” She swept across the room and sat down opposite her mother.

  Jane didn’t look up or return Lenore’s greeting. “You almost missed supper.”

  “Then Constance is serving earlier than usual. It’s not yet half past five.” She reached out and pressed her fingertips to the teapot. Cold.

  The needle whipped ever faster through the cloth, a sure sign of Jane’s agitation. “Your aunt inquired after you. You were missed.”

  Lenore poured herself a cup of the tepid tea, foregoing the milk and sugar. “Mama, Aunt Adelaide does not like me. I very much doubt I was missed.”