Kisses Like a Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  She chuckled and finally drank her tea.

  Morro muttered deep in his throat from the door, dozing beside the only place where a threat to her truly existed. A few shards of ice floated in his water bowl and a dark, wet ring in the carpet told of its presence here. At any other spot in this room, that mark would have evaporated within seconds.

  Eisengau’s people had mined limestone in these mountains for millennia. A century ago—when Napoleon had planned to invade Eisengau—the ruling grand duke had hidden his armory’s most important forge deep within the maze of tunnels, abandoned quarries, and dammed-up lakes. The entrance was only a few miles from the Citadel yet it was impossible for strangers to find, let alone trace the path to this room.

  There were very few people Colonel Zorndorf, the top designer, trusted to accurately record every step of creating one of his great designs. Not even his top two assistants knew all of the steps, let alone his students. She could have done without the honor, even though it brought frequent escapes from home.

  At one end of the floor below stood the great hearth, lined with the great bricks for which it was named. It glowed with heat, almost as bright as the noontime sun. Iron tracks ran before it, carrying small, heavy vats. Great cranes on long rods swung across its face, coaxing an immense pot far taller than a man. A single crane brought it forward, red-hot and steaming, a handful of grown men circling around it like acolytes before a pagan god.

  If they made a single mistake, they’d be fired and lose everything. No income, no house. No medical care if they were injured unless they paid for it, and the closest doctor was a half mile away. No alternate job, even if the problem had been the armory’s fault. They’d become beggars, as they would have been a thousand years ago.

  Because the damned grand duke refused to allow any change or any discussion of needing to change.

  Brecht shouted and shoved the molds into a slightly different position. His son Anton ran across the floor, carrying a slate bearing orders for the foreman.

  Meredith frowned. No children should be working the night shift, only the warier adults.

  The boy slipped, skidding across the floor toward a heavy mold, waiting to hold molten metal.

  She lunged for the balcony and shouted a warning. The bell behind her was only used for ordering refreshments. Her appeal probably wouldn’t be heard from here, not in this racket. But she could try.

  Mayer, the foreman—and Anton’s uncle—looked around.

  Another bucket arced high overhead from one furnace to the next, ready to pour fiery hot steel over anything which brought it to a stop.

  A high, thin scream rose to the rafters and vanished, as the boy desperately tried to stop himself.

  Mayer dove and yanked Anton away from the mold. He tossed him up, over his shoulder and into the lad’s father’s arms.

  An instant later, the fiery steel spilled into the form with a mighty hiss and whoosh. Steam boiled out and rose, obscuring the forge’s open hearth, as if Hades had slammed the door to his domain.

  Mayer sat up and grinned at Meredith, his back hiding their understanding from any police spies.

  She sat down, shaking. At least she’d accomplished something for one working family today.

  And she had stolen and hidden the great cannon’s plans. She couldn’t forget that. Because Eisengau had to transform and she was going to help it along.

  The library wasn’t gilded like the reception hall, thank God. Instead it was lined with books and full of big, carved wooden chairs which a hurricane couldn’t have lifted, plus an equally solid table. A single, massive chandelier blazed down pitilessly, picking out every detail of the players and their cards. Smaller lamps in the other corners allowed observers to whisper and drink, while not disturbing the players’ all-important concentration.

  Aunt Rosalind would have greatly approved of it. Brian could have played poker here for hours.

  He yawned again and didn’t look at his cards, which he hadn’t checked since they were dealt. Instead, he’d behaved as if he was eager for his bed—and let the others guess the reason why.

  The impassive steward looked around the table again, double-checking that nobody wanted any more cards. Given the monies involved, one of Grand Duke Rudolph’s liveried servants was acting as dealer. There were only three players left—Brian, Sazonov, and the Swiss fellow. The others had withdrawn and were standing up now, watching the game.

  The Swiss studied his cards, tapping his finger lightly on the table. Brian waited politely, anticipating the decision given the other’s tell-tale gesture.

  Finally the fellow shrugged and tossed his cards into the center. “Fold,” he announced clearly, in a slightly guttural accent.

  Brian inclined his head, as did Sazonov, and watched the other go.

  “Well?” demanded the Russian. He tossed back another glass of vodka without looking away from Brian. Pity he didn’t seem to be getting drunk.

  “Call.” Brian pushed the rest of his chips into the center. Five thousand pounds, plus another sixty thousand on the table, or three-hundred twenty-five-thousand dollars. A tidy little sum and a fortune to some folks, but not in his family.

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve got two pair showing, aces and kings!” Sazonov slapped the table, sloshing vodka onto the gleaming wood.

  “You haven’t proved you can beat my hand,” Brian returned, well aware of the knife lurking in his opponent’s sleeve. An evening spent playing poker with the other man hadn’t quelled his anger over the fellow’s unnecessary rudeness toward the countess.

  The other players began to gather even closer, drinks in hand, decorations gleaming on their chests like ancient oaths.

  “You fool.” Sazonov shrugged. “Never say I didn’t give you a chance.” He flipped over his last remaining card. “Full house, aces over kings.”

  Brian fanned his cards across the table. “Royal flush.” Read ’em and weep, you bastard. It wasn’t much of a lesson but maybe it would teach him a little politeness—and not to judge people too quickly.

  Sazonov glared at the unyielding cards before looking up again at Brian. “Sukin syn,” he hissed.

  The room fell silent, the previous small talk replaced by a deadly hush.

  Son of a bitch, indeed. Brian chilled at the deadly insult to his mother. The slim, sharp strip of steel up his sleeve nudged him eagerly. But if he took physical action, here and now, he’d be thrown out of town before he could find out what the U.S. or his brother needed to know.

  “When you call me that—smile!” he hissed.

  Sazonov glanced around, catching watchers studying them like a waiting gun battery. His lips curled but his eyes promised Brian that vengeance for this humiliation was only delayed.

  Brian tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving his enemy’s. It was one challenge he’d be glad to accept.

  Chapter Two

  The beer house’s pantry was barely large enough for one person, let alone three and a healthy argument. Wide shelves stacked high with flour and spices muffled their voices, while sausages hung from the ceiling cloaking the light.

  “Why did you have to tell Sazonov about the blueprints?” Meredith repeated, holding onto her temper by a shred.

  Liesel sniffed. They hadn’t spoken a civil word together since she’d realized Meredith wasn’t convinced Sazonov adored her.

  “We had to give him something in exchange for all his help,” Franz answered, finally saying something which sounded like the truth. “None of the socialist parties will give us more than a pretty proclamation, since their governments don’t want to lose access to Eisengau’s weaponry.”

  “But the blueprints?”

  “Don’t you remember how much money he’s given us? They’re the only guarantee we’ve got, if the next election fails.”

  “Of course, Sazonov is so clever,”—Meredith bit her tongue at Liesel’s sugar-sweet adoration—“he immediately realized you would be the one to steal the
plans.”

  But did you have to confirm it, thus placing me firmly in the firing line?

  “But how can I give them to him? What if he copies them or takes them back to Russia?”

  “How can you say that? He’d never betray the revolution like that. He’s told me how much he cares about the workers here and in Russia.” Liesel sighed. “He can quote poetry, too.”

  She was sure he could, especially to gullible women. How could she protect her friend?

  “Are you committed to the workers, Fräulein Duncan?” Franz asked.

  Duncan? Why was he calling her that? “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps your weak British blood is leading you a trifle astray.”

  What? Weak British blood? Astray? Every nerve snapped fully awake, as if fiery needles ripped through her veins.

  “You’re the only one of us who’s hesitating about going forward.”

  Meredith braced her shoulders, wishing for the first time in her life she was a man. Hitting somebody in the face suddenly made sense. “I feel stronger about the revolution than ever, Franz.”

  “Excellent. I knew we could trust you.” He patted her on the shoulder, his teeth shining in the faint light. “Please forgive me for testing you. I’m sure you know I’ve been around for a long time and know best. After you’ve stolen the plans, just bring them to me and I’ll take care of them.”

  She murmured something and stretched her lips across her teeth. She wouldn’t have called it a smile but she was still too angry to care. Did he think she was stupid enough to fall in line, just because he’d touched and praised her like a pet animal? Would he give her any reason for obedience other than his orders?

  Of course, he was the patriarch of their group, the senior male, and therefore entitled to unquestioning loyalty, according to local law and custom.

  Not that she’d grant it.

  A knock sounded on the door. “The beer house is filling fast,” Gerhardt announced. “We need to start hanging posters.”

  “Thank you,” Franz answered. “Well, we’d best move on so we can speak to the workers. Even if we don’t need them as much anymore, thanks to obtaining the blueprints, we still want them to feel involved.”

  But he didn’t have the blueprints. And the revolution was about the workers, not people like Franz and Liesel.

  What was changing? Did she want to stay?

  On the other hand, she still had the blueprints, not them.

  Her smile turned broader and she followed them to the door.

  “Entschuldigung, mein Herr?”

  Brian glanced up, his fingers closing around shredded telegrams above his sausage and cabbage.

  He met narrow gray eyes, a large nose above a bristling mustache, and a receding chin. Thin lips stretched across yellow teeth in a smile’s parody, surmounting a stout body cloaked in good tailoring and cheap toilet water.

  The beer house around them surged with life, every table crowded with neatly dressed men and women drinking the fine local brews. Their very respectable clothing was clean, the women’s feathered hats and men’s caps precisely set on their heads. Yet their tailoring was years out of date, held together only by precise darning and repeated repairs. A band thumped out tunes in a corner and a few couples pretended to practice the local favorites on a dance floor which would have fit in his mother’s pantry.

  Waiters filled their orders with the casual speed of long practice, the glass steins with their overflowing foam glowing like miniature suns in the big room’s gloom.

  Small pictures of saints and local landscapes were scattered across white plaster walls, framed by heavy wood paneling below and around the doors and windows. Massive tables and benches filled the center, while high-backed booths marched down the only long, uninterrupted edge. A very simple bar stood at the narrow end, where a bartender dispensed beer and rocked back and forth on his feet, eyeing the crowd more than the amber liquid he was pulling.

  Comfortable aromas of food wafted through—pork, beef, cabbage, and potatoes mixed with onions, butter, caraway. But they were fainter than he’d have expected at this time, matching the odd fact that this evening’s heavy crowds were drinking more than they were eating. And they were an unusually sober lot, even though they’d already filled almost every table and much of the aisles. Even the dogs they seemed compelled to bring everywhere were here, twining around ankles, snuffling at hands, guarding satchels.

  Brian had a corner table, granting him privacy in this, the closest beer house to Old Town’s telegraph office. It was also the only spot where his London-tailored suit melted into the shadows. He hadn’t been about to wear his Rough Rider uniform to read cables from home, even if most of the men at the Citadel were uniformed.

  “Can I help you, sir?” He met the interlopers’ glare guilelessly, wearing an expression which would have made any of his three brothers wary. He decided to lay it on a little heavier.

  “Uh, wie bitte?” He hesitated, turning the simple apology into five syllables instead of its normal three. His German was very good, thanks to an extremely brutal Klondike winter which had left him little to do except learn his cabin mate’s native tongue.

  Crimson washed through the other’s face and ebbed slowly, leaving behind ugly splotches. He closed his mouth, his yellow teeth snapping shut like an ore crusher ripping into a ten-ton boulder. He drew himself up, his coat tightening over a fat notebook in his breast pocket and a revolver in his hip pocket.

  A Webley? Damn, Grand Duke Rudolph had been bragging how placid Eisengau was so why was this cop carrying a weapon?

  Was there any danger to Brian? Probably not, but where were the threats coming from?

  Brian’s skin tightened, matching nerves and blood and muscles springing to full alertness. He waited, feigning confusion.

  The other’s gray eyes narrowed and considered Brian with no sign of friendship before reaching a visible conclusion.

  “Passport, please.” His accent was thick and barely understandable. Two men came up behind him, broader of shoulder and bulkier of pocket—and undoubtedly packing more in the way of guns.

  “Of course, sir.” Brian smiled a little more broadly, making sure he knew exactly where the other men’s weapons were. He slowly eased the all—important document out of his jacket, taking care to look harmless, and handed it over. “I’m the American buyer this year.”

  One of the thugs bent to say something quiet to the leader. He stiffened but said nothing, simply flipped through Brian’s paperwork while listening.

  When he looked up, his teeth gleamed in an oily semblance of welcome.

  “Welcome to Eisengau, mein Herr.” He bowed, snapping his heels together. “My apologies, sir, for having disturbed you. I trust you will enjoy your visit.”

  “Thank you.” Brian would have relaxed faster if a rattlesnake had declared undying affection.

  A curt nod and the three pivoted. The throng parted before them then closed ranks behind them to avoid contact with the clearly unwelcome officials.

  Brian took a drink of his now lukewarm beer and checked to see if anyone was watching him. Nobody, thank God, either his plate or his cables’ scraps. Donovan & Sons’ cipher was extremely strong but why let anybody else have a chance to read his mail? Especially this batch, which had contained good news for his mission at the expense of bad news for his family.

  The Europeans had finally gotten an army moving to rescue the diplomats in Peking. Unfortunately, nobody had yet heard from Neil. So he had full use of all the money—a damned great fortune—they’d gathered to rescue his brother, because nobody knew if Neil was alive or dead.

  Worse, he’d learned the Russians planned to attack heavily at any pretext, hoping to seize territory and gold first, then argue about the rightful owner later. The response to his warning lay shredded on the table before him: The Allied army, including its Russian wing, would go into battle long before even the fastest message could reach them.

  He slammed his fis
t into his other hand. He’d rather be a pauper, going into an auction with nothing but his wits to help him.

  Big brother had to be alive. He was too stubborn for anything else to have happened. Plus, he had Abraham, Father’s Chinese bodyguard, with him and he could speak at least one dialect like a native.

  Brian cursed under his breath, struck a match, and lit the cables, removing the last temptation for passersby to steal the shreds and help the competition piece them together. Still, he’d be able to buy weapons faster than anybody else because he could do so on his signature alone, rather than begging for permission from his masters back home.

  Paper blackened and curled.

  He poked it, suppressing the urge to add another match. Not here, not now, not when it might draw attention from a policeman. He found himself clenching his fists and gritted his teeth.

  Be patient, dammit. The first telegram was gone, at least.

  Perhaps he could pick up the ashes and crush them under his boot heel? But in a beer house?

  He snorted at his own stupidity. The band crashed into a long chord and stopped.

  Brian looked up, automatically seeking the next song’s start. It was too soon for the set to be over so why were they filing off now?

  The band disappeared through a small door, neatly concealed in the woodwork. Their dancers were gone, replaced by men tacking up banners under a young woman’s direction. The signs were big with strong, bold lettering—“Vote Now,” “One Man One Vote,” and more of the same ilk.

  But the woman? Praise the saints, she was the girl he’d seen yesterday in the town square, crowned with golden hair. She now wore a surprisingly well-tailored blue suit and white shirt, a higher quality version than the usual Eisengau’s working woman’s wardrobe. Her high collar was pinned with a chased gold brooch, highlighted by a darker golden stone.

  Her movements were direct and confident, her commands staccato. Her forces worked eagerly and quickly under her direction, accomplishing their tasks remarkably fast.