The Kraken King Part IV: The Kraken King and the Inevitable Abduction (A Novel of the Iron Seas)

by Meljean Brook

  She imagined it instantly, clearly. Her legs tangled with his. All that warm skin and hard muscle. And Ariq, his hair loosened and jaw shadowed, waking her with a luxurious kiss.

  “That was unbelievably presumptuous,” she said in astonished wonder. “I should be furious. But it was so well done. I have shivers all over.”

  His grin sent another shiver racing over her heated skin. “Your pleasure is my only goal.”

  “I prefer protection.”

  “And if you’re with me in bed, you’re easier to protect.”

  “A persuasive argument.” And she was happy to be persuaded. “But you’d be distracted. If you give me your all, you’re not protecting me. And if you’re protecting me, you can’t give me your all. Either my pleasure or your protection would suffer for it.”

  His eyes narrowed as he tried to work his way around that one.

  Laughing, she said, “Admit defeat, Governor!”

  His big hand left her jaw to grip her nape. His head lowered, his mouth just above hers. Their breath mingled, hers trembling, her laughter gone. She tried to rise onto her toes but he held her fast, so close to his lips and yearning to breach the distance.

  “Ariq,” he said softly. “When we are alone, you will call me Ariq.”

  “Ariq,” she breathed.

  He let her go. She staggered back, her heart racing, and what wasn’t throbbing was tight and hot and aching. God.

  Still catching her breath, she stared up at him. “You, sir, do not fight fair.”

  He didn’t look sorry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zenobia was right; he didn’t fight fair. This wasn’t a game. Ariq was trying to battle his way past her defenses. They’d already cracked. When he visited her that evening, they needed to fall.

  If they didn’t, he knew which weapon to use. Zenobia’s mercenaries had told him the walls she’d built around herself were vulnerable to anyone who cared for her.

  Ariq should have no trouble walking right through.

  He wouldn’t yet. He still hoped for her trust, her surrender. In this war, his heart was iron, but also molten. Placing it in her hands would be his own surrender. She could mold and shape it—or ruin it completely.

  For now, her soft touch and trembling breaths only made it stronger, and his will remained steel.

  Fortunately. He needed a steel will to sit through dinner.

  Several other diplomats had been invited, though Ariq and the ambassador’s wife had only arrived that afternoon. If it had all been hastily arranged, Ariq couldn’t tell.

  That was what Auger seemed to do best: smooth out problems and put people at ease. It was a skill Ariq didn’t have, but he knew enough not to insist that Zenobia be seated next to him, or to cut down the table’s legs so that he could sit somewhere more comfortable than a stiff, tall chair. When he ate, Ariq liked to feel that his stomach was at his center. Seated like this, it felt as if his center was his ass, instead.

  But when one drank the water of a place, one followed the customs of that place—and here, Ariq was being given more wine than water, which he didn’t mind. Though fingers carried food to the mouth better than forks, he used the silver. He engaged in the nearby conversation, though he only had eyes for Zenobia at the opposite end of the table.

  He was the only one who did.

  It was strange how she was disregarded. He’d seen it before with the French aviators, but he’d thought they’d preferred Helene because she was the ambassador’s wife and therefore their priority. They’d been polite to Zenobia, had seemed to acknowledge she was a sensible woman, but hadn’t shown any other interest.

  The same happened now. When she spoke to her companions, she sometimes smiled, or even laughed, and they did the same. But it was all politeness. Through it all, she seemed detached. Guarded. As if she used her words to keep them away instead of bringing them in.

  Beside him, Helene had the opposite effect on everyone they were seated with, and they were drawn to her. Men and women. That was a skill, too—to make them all feel more important, smarter, necessary—and the more they approved of her and admired her, the brighter she became. Had any ruthlessness existed in her, she could have ruled a country. Instead she only seemed to need that admiration.

  And Helene didn’t wreck him every time he looked into her eyes.

  But he watched her, too, because Mara had said that everyone who knew Zenobia’s identity took advantage of her in some way. Had her friend? How? As far as he could see, Helene didn’t even know Zenobia’s name. She called her ‘Geraldine,’ and had introduced her to others as ‘Madame Inkslinger.’

  Yet in those conversations, she revealed that they had been friends since they were children. So how could Helene not know who she was?

  Then in passing, between a sip of wine and a bite of fish, Ariq heard Helene speak another name—the family name of her neighbors when she’d been young.

  And he finally understood who Zenobia was.

  ***

  Gunther-Baptiste.

  It had been more than a decade since he’d met the smuggler with the same name, but as he soaked in the steaming water of the bathhouse, Ariq closed his eyes and let the man’s face return to him. Angular, like Zenobia’s. The same brilliant green eyes. Similar accents when they spoke.

  Her brother.

  Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste. He’d partnered with a man named Bilson, and together they’d been two of the most reliable men in the business—until they’d lost a shipment of Temür Agha’s war machines. That was the link between Zenobia’s letters and Ariq’s uncle.

  But what had happened since that lost shipment? No one in the rebellion would work with them again. That didn’t mean they’d quit smuggling. The twins had mentioned rumors that Gunther-Baptiste had helped free New Eden from Bushke’s tyranny—which meant he’d been in this part of the world.

  And it meant he was still the reckless idealist.

  An idealist might believe exposing information was a moral imperative. A reckless man might get into trouble.

  Ariq thought it must be the latter. Her brother had probably leapt into something he couldn’t handle alone and had appealed to his sister for help.

  And it fit what Mara had told him: Everyone used her, and those closest to her made her the most vulnerable. What wouldn’t she do for her brother? If he’d asked her to carry dangerous information into the Red City, would she?

  Ariq thought she would have—but only if Gunther-Baptiste’s life depended on it. She was too clever and too practical to risk herself for foolish reasons, or to gratify a brother’s idealistic ambitions.

  The names she and her brother used in their letters made more sense now, too. With a personality as loud as his clothes had been, Gunther-Baptiste was exactly the type to take on the name of a popular hero to disguise his identity during the course of a job. And Zenobia . . . was not. But she must have thought it prudent to disguise herself, as well, and to hire mercenaries who could protect her. She’d traveled with her friend aboard a French naval airship that should have been secure.

  He couldn’t fault any of the precautions she’d taken. Yet somehow, someone in the rebellion must have discovered she was coming.

  Were they also the ones who had threatened her brother?

  If she trusted him with the truth tonight, Ariq could help her. He would help them both.

  Unless she chose to tell him tomorrow morning.

  He’d have to be careful when he kissed her. So careful. Her mouth was still bruised. The cut on her side couldn’t have fully healed. He’d have to be gentle when he took her, no matter how badly he needed.

  Dregs and hell. He needed now, just picturing the softness of her skin, her long legs, the gentle swell of her breasts. Remembering her taste, and the hitch in her breath when his tongue had swept between her lips. Imagining her tight and hot and needy as he settled between her thighs and eased in.

  Almost fifteen minutes passed before he could stand up and begin dr
ying himself. The Kraken, at home in the water—because he couldn’t keep his damned tentacle under control in a public bath.

  Zenobia would laugh at that. A good thing, too. His control would be tested often when she was his. He might have to build a private bath in his home, or risk every man in his town knowing just how frequently Ariq thought of her.

  He might have to anyway. He hadn’t seen Zenobia visit the women’s baths, even though she’d enjoyed bathing in the sea. But she’d been clothed then. The rest of their journey, she’d must have washed in the privacy of her chambers, without the luxury of a soak. A tin tub hardly sufficed. With more time, she might become accustomed to the public house, but if not, he’d make certain she could have the pleasure at home.

  Outside, the moon was a sliver peeking through a clouded sky. Gas lanterns lit the empty street. The embassy’s defenses were poor. Watchmen patrolled the gate and gardens, and the fence provided decent protection against light forces on the ground, but like almost every other home in this city, the building was vulnerable to an invasion by balloon.

  The rebellion didn’t use many airships. Their strategy often depended on concealment and making unexpected, concentrated attacks, and it was difficult to hide a large balloon.

  But although airships weren’t often used, the rebellion had access to them, and Zenobia’s balcony might as well have been an invitation. He’d stay in her chambers during the night whether she invited him into her bed or not.

  She was on the balcony now.

  His body tightened when he spotted her, reigniting the stiff ache. She stood silhouetted in the soft glow through her windows, fully dressed, her hair up—waiting for him.

  No, not just waiting. Preparing. She knew he would come, but she wouldn’t let him take her by surprise. If he knew anything about her at all, it was that she wouldn’t allow him to determine the direction this night took.

  By the sweet blue heavens, she was incredible. She must have already planned how this would go. Maybe she’d even consulted her notes, using everything she’d learned about him. She’d probably envisioned it all and readied her speech.

  A sound strategy. Ariq preferred to ambush.

  She disappeared from the balcony before he reached the entrance. The embassy was quiet. No one saw him go to her chambers, but by tomorrow morning, everyone would know, because his boots would still be outside her door.

  He didn’t knock. When he entered, she was locking the balcony doors. Her brows arched when she faced him, as if to say she’d expected him to slip uninvited into her room.

  “What did you decide?” He closed the bedchamber door and turned the key, locking it with a solid click. Her smile faltered. “Now? Or the morning?”

  Her gaze flew from the lock to his face. “Now.”

  Probably the answer she’d prepared. He wondered if she’d planned the breathless tension in her reply.

  “All right.” Ariq unbuckled the shoulder of his tunic. “You have until I cross the room.”

  Jade eyes widened. “What?”

  “Tell me what you need to. I’ll go slow.” He dropped his belt to the floor.

  “You’ll . . . I— Oh, my.”

  He took a step. Her pale skin flushed. She backed up, shoulders pressed against the balcony door. With her gaze fixed on his discarded belt, she slid sideways, palms against the wall until she hit the desk beside the window. She glanced at it wildly, as if confused to see it there, then her gaze cleared and she flattened her hand atop a stack of papers piled on the surface. Her typesetting machine sat beside them, her glider contraption opened by the desk legs.

  She stooped and slid the papers into the pack. When she stood again, her composure had returned.

  So had her prepared speech. “My brother—Archimedes Fox—is an adventurer.”

  Archimedes Fox. Not Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste.

  Disappointment speared through him. She wasn’t going to trust him with the truth.

  But she was clever. And she knew she needed protection. Whatever story she told him would help Ariq do that.

  “I’ve heard the name,” he said, and clipped open the buckle at his side.

  Her gaze dropped to his hand. She hauled in a slow breath, her small breasts lifting, her nipples like beads beneath the silk of her tunic.

  Ariq intended to suck on those sweet buds when she came. Her fingernails scraping at his back, her nipple hard on his tongue as he pumped deeper and deeper into her clenching sheath.

  But gently. So gently. He took another step.

  “I’m not surprised you’ve heard of him,” she finally said, her voice even but her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, as if to hold herself in place. “He salvages antiquities in Europe. His salvaging runs are dangerous more often than not, and he encounters all sorts of people on his travels—then he would tell me about them in his letters. I used his stories as inspiration to write my own: the Archimedes Fox adventures.”

  He hadn’t expected her to claim she wrote them. But it was clever, offering an explanation for the letters in her pack, as well as her constant writing and note-taking. And without the real Archimedes Fox to deny it, her claim was impossible to disprove.

  “The twins said he wrote them.” Ariq wanted to hear her answer to that. She must have prepared for it.

  Zenobia frowned. “The twins? You asked them?”

  He only nodded and took another step, unwrapping his tunic.

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes. “Everyone assumes that he wrote them. The hero bears his name, after all. I didn’t see any harm in it. It was just funny—a joke between us. And when I sent the stories to the publisher, I asked that they not use any name for the author, because I thought people would be less likely to read a story written by a woman. But Archimedes’ name became known in salvaging circles, so they knew he was a real man—and as the stories became more famous, readers assumed he penned his own adventures.

  “I never corrected them. I . . .” She opened her eyes again and her wide gaze went directly to his bare chest when his tunic fell to the floor. “I didn’t care. The adventures were popular and I made a good amount of money. But then . . . then he became truly famous—and rich—after he discovered a sketch by Leonardo da Vinci.”

  The inventor whose war machines had helped keep the Golden Empire’s army at bay in the eastern part of Europe, centuries ago. Then the Khagan had unleashed the zombies across the wall and it was over.

  He took another step. Halfway across the room now. “And?”

  Zenobia bit her lip. After another second, she said, “Before he could sell the sketch, an antiquities dealer learned that Archimedes had found it. A man was sent to my home to look for it. That was the first time I needed rescue.”

  There was truth in that, he thought. Perhaps not the details. But Ariq knew remembered fear when he saw it. Usually from soldiers reliving a battle, yet with Zenobia now. Eyes unfocused, she was utterly still. Whatever had happened, she’d faced death, and a part of her wasn’t here in this room. She was recalling every moment of it.

  Softly, he asked, “Is that when you hired Mara and Cooper?”

  “No,” she said, and returned to him. “Not then. There still weren’t many people who knew Archimedes Fox had a sister, until a former partner of his had me kidnapped by mercenaries, trying to force my brother on a fool’s errand to New Eden. So Archimedes put out an advertisement, offering a fortune to whoever found me and delivered me safely home. So the mercenaries who kidnapped me brought me back and collected their reward. But there were others after that. It was an easy way to earn money—kidnap Archimedes Fox’s sister and wait for the ransom. That’s when I hired Mara and Cooper.”

  And there was truth there, too. The former partner—Bilson. The twins had said he and Gunther-Baptiste had been in New Eden. A betrayal might be the reason for the trouble now.

  But her story didn’t explain this. “And my uncle? How do you know of him?”

  “The letters.” She gestured to her
pack. “Archimedes traveled to Morocco just before the revolution.”

  “But how did he know that Temür Agha was a rebel? Few people did.” Gunther-Baptiste had known.

  She didn’t have an answer ready for that. Ariq took another step. Her hands fluttered up and she said, “Helene was right when she said I was confused by the news reports.”

  But she hadn’t been. “And that was all the letter said—that my uncle died in the rebellion?”

  “No.” Her fingers twisted together. “My brother and his wife flew him out of Rabat on her airship. They took him to Europe. He’s there now, gathering people from the outposts, and moving east.”

  Ariq froze. “My uncle is?”

  “Yes.”

  Even the Khagan had feared his uncle’s power over the Golden Empire’s armies, so much that he hadn’t dared to kill him. Instead, he’d sent Temür Agha to the farthest end of the empire and appointed him governor.

  If Temür Agha returned, he wouldn’t need to conceal his loyalty to the rebellion. The time of sitting at the Khagan’s right hand had passed. Many soldiers in the Khagan’s armies would defect to his uncle’s banner, shattering the waning strength of the emperor’s forces.

  But even if the soldiers remained loyal, an army would still be marching east, gathering support as it went. The people in the outposts were almost all dissidents from the empire who’d been rounded up and forced to labor in walled compounds surrounded by zombies. Many outposts had war machines and had been charged with keeping the Europeans from returning. With a man like Temür Agha at the lead, they would turn those machines toward the heart of the empire, instead.

  A man like Temür Agha . . . and his guard, a woman with a body of mechanical flesh. Without Nasrin, no army would have stood a chance in the zombie-infested lands. If her life hadn’t been tethered to his uncle’s, she could have probably cleared the entire continent of the creatures instead of simply clearing a path—and when they reached the empire, she could be a knife instead of a bomb. The rebellion’s greatest failure was that they’d often hurt more people than they’d helped. But his uncle could send her ahead of his forces and precisely target any threats against them, so that fewer innocents were destroyed in their wake. Instead of cursing the rebellion, more people would join him.