by Taven Moore
Groaning, he remembered. She was gentry. What was she doing slumming in a joint like the Jolly Rooster? Getting her kicks, seeing how the other half lived? He’d heard stupider plans from smarter people.
She swayed on the stool and steadied herself with one slim hand against the bar.
And, to top it off, she was drunk. Fabulous.
He glanced around the room, looking for her protector. Surely she wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here alone. Hell, even he never came here without Bones.
He didn’t see anyone that looked like a bodyguard. Not good.
Doubly not good, as Chesterfield reached her and began to talk.
Hank stood, pushing his chair back and moving away from the table. Behind him, he heard another hollow sigh from Bones, but he ignored it.
He reached the pair of them just in time to hear the girl declare in an outraged tone, “Get your filthy hands off me, you cad!” and see her swing wildly at the captain with her mug.
To his surprise (and hers as well, judging from the look on her face) the glass mug connected solidly with Chesterfield’s chin.
He reeled back and she stared stupidly at the glass in her hand, as though it had been the one doing the aiming.
Had she really called him a cad? What kind of insult was that? Hank stifled a bark of laughter. Definitely gentry.
Chesterfield didn’t stay away for long—he’d probably reeled more from surprise than pain.
The girl looked like she didn’t have enough muscle on her skinny frame to push around a shonfra, let alone a burly, angry pirate captain.
“Why you little—”
“Hey. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Hank interrupted.
Chesterfield snarled and turned to him, a red welt growing on the side of his face. Hank’s brows lifted. Maybe the girl had put a bit of muscle behind that swing after all.
“This ain’t your business, friend,” growled the man.
“I’m making it my business. Friend.” He barely got the word out before the captain’s fist slammed into his cheek. He fell backward, landing on a table and sending a spray of playing cards flying into the air. A chorus of angry shouts rose from the people who had been sitting there, but he didn’t have time to address it. He rolled to the side just in time to avoid the chair hefted in his direction.
His blood sang in his ears. Grinning, he leaped to his feet. This was more like it. Beat moping into an empty ale mug by a far sight.
He swung his arm wide and the heavy bottom of his mug crashed into the back of the Chesterfield’s head.
After that, it was just a mess of bodies. He lost sight of Chesterfield as he dodged a knife from one of the poker players—unsportsmanlike, in his opinion, but he hadn’t exactly been asked.
At one point, he was thrown from the thick of the fight and landed near Bones, who leaned against the far wall, arms crossed nonchalantly over his chest.
Panting heavily, Hank asked, “Aren’t you going to help?” The ticker could clean out this whole bar in a matter of minutes. Who could stand against a man made of solid metal?
Bones gave him The Look. Hank hated The Look. “You go back in there and be unreasonable. I’ll stay out here and be reasonable. First person to get our ship back, wins.”
“Bones! Did you just make a joke?”
“Humor is irrelev—”
“Irrelevant, I know.” Hank sighed. “I know.”
A fist flew past his ear and he turned his attention back to the fight.
He had to admit, he was having an awful lot of fun right up until the constables arrived.
3. Disappointment
“Up!”
Remora groaned, shedding the last tatters of unsettling dreams.
The voice spoke again, more insistently. “Up, girl. Inebriates are allowed no more than six hours in the recovery room.”
Blearily, she opened her eyes, then immediately wished she hadn’t. Light stabbed through her half-opened lids and burst painfully against the back of her skull. With a gasp, she lifted her hand to her head, feeling a tender lump beneath her leather cap.
Why did her head hurt? She remembered the bar, and that brutish, smelly captain accosting her. Then another man had come up and a fight had broken out. Someone had hit her with something. She hadn’t seen who or with what, but it must have knocked her out.
She’d never been knocked unconscious before. In the novels she read, the hero or heroine awakened from being knocked unconscious to find themselves either in dire peril or in the safe arms of their loved ones.
Tentatively, she peeked through a half-lidded eye at her surroundings. The small cot upon which she lay had only a single thin blanket. Boring cement walls that had once been painted a wan green framed the room. A solid metal door cut into the far wall and a single uniformed woman stood in the doorway holding a clipboard and tapping an impatient foot against the floor.
Remora was most certainly not in loving, safe arms. Nor did she find herself tied to a doomsday apparatus while villainous cackles peppered the air around her: no dire peril, either.
Disappointed, she frowned. As a matter of fact, the books never mentioned the splitting headache she was currently experiencing, either. The hero always sprang immediately back into action with a ready energy she most certainly did not share. Her arms and legs felt useless and sluggish.
Granted, it wasn’t as though she’d intended to experience being knocked out, but she had to admit, the reality fell rather annoyingly shy of the fantasy. Were she home, she might consider writing a sternly worded letter to an author or two for their duplicity.
Were she home . . . The thought sent a jolt of panic through her. Fumbling, she moved the hand from her head and quickly pressed it against her ribcage. She was still wearing her corset beneath her borrowed coveralls. The rush of relief was so strong that she closed her eyes and simply lay still. She’d hated the constant requirement to wear a corset when she was a child, but now it acted as a familiar shield. She was safe, so long as she had her corset.
She allowed herself only a moment to relax. She was, after all, Lady Remora Windgates Price. Weakness was not a Price personality trait. Tenacity, her father often admonished her, was what made a Price different. She certainly wasn’t about to let a little bump on the head keep her down!
As she rose to a seated position, the guard made an impatient sound, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’re moving. Good. If you’re nauseous, it would be appreciated if you’d use the bucket provided to you at the head of your cot. It saves us a great deal of cleaning up after.”
Horrified, she glanced down to the object in question. Primly, she said, “Thank you, but I do not believe that will be necessary.” Remora swayed gently, her stomach rebelling, but she quashed the feeling. Really, what sort of person vomited into a bucket in public? The entire situation was unthinkable.
“Excellent.” The guard checked something off on her clipboard. “You have exactly five minutes left before your mandated six hours of recovery are over. I recommend you spend that time standing up and walking. If you find yourself unable to walk, protocol dictates I call in another guard to carry you to your holding cell.” The guard tapped the end of her pencil impatiently against the top edge of the clipboard.
How dreadfully rude. To suggest that she might need to be carried, like a sack of potatoes or a large puppy! Remora lifted her chin, then rose to her feet. Her stomach sloshed uncomfortably, but she ignored it and instead leveled a superior look at the guard.
“Congratulations,” the guard said in a droll tone. “You can stand. Now, I want you to do it again, only this time against the far wall, next to the cot.”
“Pardon me?” Remora blinked at the woman. She might not be feeling up to her normal observant self, but that seemed a singularly odd request.
The guard pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt and dangled them meaningfully. She pointed to Remora. “You. Stand against the far wall.” Her hand mov
ed to point to a nearby wall. “I am going to handcuff you in accordance with Standard Prisoner Transportation Statute 4.1, and then we’re going to walk from the recovery room to the holding cell.”
Prisoner Transportation . . . by the light of the dawnstar, she was in prison! How fascinating! She’d never been to prison before. “Oh, I hadn’t realized!” Excited, she took another glance around. She should remember as many details as she could. It wasn’t every day that she had the opportunity to experience imprisonment! She turned to the guard, brown eyes sparkling. “Please, what are the charges against me?”
The guard frowned at her eagerness. “You are currently being held for public inebriation and charges of participating in altercations which lead to the destruction of private property on the grounds of a bar known as . . . ” here the guard flipped a page on her clipboard, her eyebrows raising, “the Jolly Rooster.”
“Marvelous!” Remora breathed.
The guard’s frown returned. “Ma’am, this is not a joke.”
Hastily, Remora lifted her hands. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply that it was. You wanted me to stand against the far wall, you said? With my hands behind my back, I assume?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she replied shortly.
Remora moved to the spot and folded her arms behind her back. To think, she might be knocked out and imprisoned, all in one night! What an adventure!
After a pause, the guard moved forward and swiftly cuffed her wrists.
“Now turn.”
Remora did, testing the handcuffs tentatively. If she absolutely needed to, she might be able to slip her wrists from the metal, but not without considerable bruising, which would be unsightly and difficult to explain at parties. She glanced over her shoulder. The guard’s keys dangled from a large ring on her hip. That was important to note, just in case she needed to instigate a jailbreak. Heroes were always stealing keys from prison guards.
“Face forward!” the guard barked.
Startled, she swiveled her head back around. She imagined this particular prison guard might be more difficult to finesse than the average literary constable: she was far too attentive.
“Through the door and to your right.”
Meekly, she obeyed, though her eyes darted around the room and subsequent hallway. It didn’t look much like a prison. At least, not the way they were described in the books. No stench of mildew or vague odor of urine—she smelled a hint of bleach, but that was about it. The walls appeared solid enough, though the paint was obviously faded with time. Most of the cells they passed were empty, and even the ones that were occupied held silent prisoners—not a single ravening murderer in the bunch. The metal bars were clean and rust-free, and despite taking extra care to watch for them, she saw not one roach or rat during her trip from the recovery room to the holding cell.
All in all, she had to admit it was a rather disappointing prison.
4. Rusty
Hank slouched against the bars of his cell, smirking.
She should be coming down the hallway any minute now—that silver spoon from the bar. He’d told the officers that she was his sister. With no one else in the bar able to identify her, they’d believed him. Family privileges meant that as soon as they prodded her from the miserable cot in that windowless cell they called a “Recovery Room,” she’d be delivered directly to his cell.
He examined his fingernails as his smirk deepened. Naturally, she’d be overcome with surprise and gratitude upon seeing him—he had, after all, saved her from Chesterfield. And, wonder of wonders, here he was again to rescue her from the shame and horror of being imprisoned.
Of course, he’d make sure there was some kind of reward involved. Enough to cover the usual bribe to grease the release papers for himself, Bones, and Miss Silver Spoon, and then some. It wouldn’t be enough to pay off his debt to Ratchet, but it might be enough to appease the greedy fool until he could find paying work for his ship.
“She’s coming,” said Bones, voice blank.
Hank spared his companion a quick glance. The ticker stood stiffly in the back corner of the cell, taking advantage of what shadows there were to obscure his appearance. He’d been in a black mood ever since they’d gotten arrested. Hank ignored him. Let him sulk if he wanted. Hank’s plan was bulletproof. He had yet to meet the woman he couldn’t charm.
Sure enough, his eyes finally confirmed what Bones had already noticed—his meal ticket, escorted by a female guard. Quickly, he ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair and prepared to crank up the charisma.
The guard opened the door and removed the girl’s handcuffs in silence. Hank choked back a laugh. Here, in the full light of the cell, her outfit looked even more ridiculous than it had in the smoky bar. The girl seemed impossibly frail—short, with thin wrists and sharp cheekbones. Her skin was startlingly pale, yet not a single freckle dotted her nose. Obviously at least three sizes too large, her coveralls completely obscured any curves she might have had. Topping it off, her leather cap perched on her head with all the grace of a dead fish.
Just about the only thing she had going for her was her eyes—wide and brown. She turned them on him curiously as the guard walked away, and he saw they actually had little flecks of gold embedded in the rich chocolate color.
Pretty eyes or no, she was his best chance to get out of this prison and he wasn’t about to lose it.
He turned up the wattage on his smile and gave her a half-lidded, interested glance from his own vivid green eyes.
Her eyes met his and he held contact. Just a moment more, and she’d blush, and then he could—
Her eyes drifted right past his own and landed on Bones. Her expression brightened.
“Are you . . . my goodness, you’re really a ticker, aren’t you?” she exclaimed.
Hank straightened, smile hitching. What, exactly, just happened? She’d barely even glanced at him!
“No,” he said, just as Bones also replied, “Yes.”
He shot his first mate a glare. It wasn’t safe for people to know Bones was a ticker. What could be going on in that metal head of his?
“That’s incredible!” she breathed, then took a step closer, brown eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed.
Hank frowned. That was the look he was supposed to be getting, not that bucket of bolts. He needed to rectify this situation before it got out of hand.
He stepped forward, smoothly inserting himself between the girl and Bones. A small line appeared between her brows as she looked up to his face. Good, he had her attention, now all he had to do was—
“Excuse me,” she said, “but you’re in the way. Kindly take a step back, please?”
It wasn’t a request. Baffled, he took a step back.
Bones gave a metallic snort.
Was that . . . laughter? No. Bones didn’t believe in humor. He must have imagined it.
The girl stepped forward and peered interestedly at Bones’s face. “Oh!” she said, blushing and dropping her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry to stare. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Your apology is unnecessary,” said Bones. “Your curiosity does not bother me.”
Hank’s eyebrows lifted. Oh, really? He’d once seen Bones throw a man through a wall for doing the same thing.
She lifted a hand toward Bones’s face, then paused halfway. “May I?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Bones.
At that, had Hank’s eyebrows been birds, they might well have taken flight.
What was so special about this girl that Bones was being so accommodating? Bones didn’t let anyone touch him. Ever.
She reached up, then stood on tiptoes for the palm of her hand to touch the smooth panel of metal that curved to make the lower half of the ticker’s face.
“Oh! You’re rusty!”
Here, those gold-flecked eyes finally turned to meet Hank’s gaze, but instead of being filled with adoration, there was nothing but outrage. “How could you let him get rusty?”
&
nbsp; “Me?” Hank straightened. “Me! How exactly am I supposed to polish him, when that two-faced waste of metal won’t let anyone near him?”
She flounced. She actually flounced. He’d never seen anyone do it before, but it wasn’t the sort of gesture that could be easily mistaken for any other.
“What a preposterous statement to make, as he allowed me permission to touch him not a moment ago. Besides which, one could hardly blame him for being picky if that’s the way you talk about him. I can’t imagine you have many friends at all with behavior like that!”
What had just happened? One minute he’d been smiling at her and the next her brown eyes sparked at him as though he’d personally insulted her.
This was not the plan. As a matter of fact, it could be argued that it was the exact opposite of the plan. Their window of opportunity for getting out of prison and getting their ship out of Ratchet’s slimy hands was dwindling rapidly, and his first mate seemed to find the whole situation amusing.
How could he possibly salvage this situation?
5. Convenient
Remora opened her mouth to release yet another scathing commentary upon the parentage and manners of the dirty prisoner (stunning green eyes or no, such behavior was truly inexcusable).
“I am Bones,” said the ticker, effectively derailing her tirade before it could begin.
To ignore his introduction would be rude, so she set aside her ire to respond. She offered her hand to the ticker, palm down. He reached forward and grasped her fingers gently, metal fingers cold against her warmth. She dropped into a formal curtsy. “You may call me Remora.”
The ticker released her hand and gestured to the other side of the cell. “My companion is Daniel McCoy.”
“Name’s Hank,” the man corrected with a sour glare.
“You, Daniel,” she stated stiffly, “may call me Miss Price.”
His eyes narrowed. “The name is Hank,” he repeated, more forcefully.
“Don’t be ridiculous. If your name is Daniel, then Daniel it is. It is a solid, respectable name,” she pointed out sensibly.