Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  “London it is.” Torkel adjusted the dirigible’s heading.

  “If you agree to a wild plan to speed our voyage, I’ll double it again.”

  Torkel gaped. “What plan?”

  Jack held out a hand, crooking his fingers at the spyglass. The juggler passed it over. Eye pressed to its lens, Jack sighted the distant skyline of York, then took in the train tracks below them. Ones that—a quick glance at the compass on the instrument panel confirmed—led straight to London.

  “The morning train heads south soon. Is this vessel equipped with a harpoon anchor?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cait woke to the soft pat of a tiny hand upon her face. A small, bright-eyed girl with fur-tufted ears stared down at her. Morning light poured through the windows of an unfamiliar gondola. A quick glance about informed her they were alone.

  “Adie?” Drifting in and out of a fever dream, she’d somehow caught hold of names while Jack negotiated a ride south, before fading back into oblivion.

  The girl nodded.

  Overhead, feet stomped upon the roof.

  “What’s happening?” Cait pushed herself upright upon the pallet, relieved to find that the walls no longer wavered and rippled about her. The venom’s effects were diminishing. Though a lingering fever indicated she was far from fully recovered.

  The child pointed at the ceiling, made a throwing motion.

  “Putting in anchor?”

  Adie nodded. Offered Cait a half-eaten biscuit.

  “No.” Her stomach rebelled. “I’d best stick to water. But thank you.”

  Why were the men tethering down? Certainly not on her account. Jack knew better than to drag her into a hospital. Unless he believed she’d lost far too much blood?

  Not so. She’d be fine.

  Cait staggered onto her feet, lurched toward a control panel and braced herself upon its broad surface.

  Well, perhaps in a few more hours.

  Through the wide, narrow window above the helm, Cait gaped at the train that steamed beneath them. They couldn’t possibly mean to—

  She scanned the board, flipped a likely switch and was rewarded with the sounds of two men working to crank something spring-loaded. A tension cannon?

  “Jack?” she called into the speaking tube. “This is a bad idea. What if you—”

  Thwump. The dirigible leapt in the air. Hiss. A harpoon trailing a silver cable shot through the sky. Thwack. Its point lodged in the roof of a freight car. Under new power, the gondola jerked forward, nearly causing her to lose her feet.

  Shouts and cheers rang out overhead, then two victorious men scrambled down the side of the gondola and jumped back inside, tugging goggles from sooty faces as the door slammed behind them.

  Broad smiles stretched their faces. Male bonding. She’d witnessed it too many times to count. The undertaking of exciting—no matter how ill-advised—actions invigorated men.

  Not that she disapproved. She herself often gambled on narrow odds. For sometimes, such risks resulted in a triumph.

  Jack scooped her into his arms and spun her about, pressing a fervent kiss to her lips. “We did it! London in less than three hours!” He set her down, gently, upon her feet, supporting her when she swayed.

  “You shouldn’t be up.” He steered her toward a chair. “Sit.”

  “I’m a bit woozy, that’s all,” she protested as he wrapped a blanket about her shoulders despite the blaze in the fire box. “Blood loss is slowing the clearing of toxins.” She glanced out the window. “Won’t the engineer object?”

  “Most likely.” The prospect didn’t seem to dim Jack’s enthusiasm. “I’ll ratchet down later to arrange for your brother to pay an exorbitant fee for aid rendered to Queen’s agents.”

  “Fee?” She lifted her eyebrows. “A fine is more like it.” But Jack only laughed. Even Cait had to admit the expression upon Logan’s face alone would be worth the cost.

  “We will celebrate.” Torkel lit a kerosine lamp. Above it, he hung a kettle. Tea for guests upon all dirigibles, a tradition begun by the first aeronaughts in defiance of the risks posed by the giant hydrogen balloons suspended above their heads. Helium and, later, aether, had removed much of the risk, if not the tradition.

  “We have time to speak now.” Torkel passed out sturdy, earthenware mugs. “About your unfortunate visit with Dr. Thrakos.” His gaze fell upon Cait. “What brought you to the Floating Cabinet of Curiosities?”

  She answered. “We were hoping to learn more about a particular project of his involving venomous women.”

  “Ah, the snake-women. There’s not much to tell. Dr. Thrakos always works apart. Occasionally for the circus, mostly for himself. About a year ago, a woman arrived. Though docked not far away, we only caught a few glimpses.”

  Cait leaned closer.

  “Dark hair, average height,” Torkel shrugged, “unexceptional, save for the scales my wife claimed covered her legs.”

  “Scales?” Jack pressed.

  “I couldn’t say. The woman never mingled, never performed or never put herself on display. And she didn’t stay long.”

  So much for begging Torkel to meet with a sketch artist.

  “Did she ever return for a visit?” Cait asked.

  Torkel shook his head. “A few months ago, a few of our prettier performers disappeared. Whispers spread among the women that Dr. Thrakos had lured them away. A simple dental procedure in exchange for a promise of riches.”

  Toilet traps. Simple? Installing glands and teeth that might kill the bearer at any moment?

  Torkel continued. “It was whispered that all but one woman’s body was found dead upon the moors, their mouths naught but gaping, bloody holes.” A final horror that nailed the coffin shut.

  Cait shuddered. It was a story to haunt nightmares.

  Jack asked a few more questions, but there was nothing more Torkel could add. The sabre-juggler left them to their tea and returned to the helm, adjusting various dials, stoking the fire and watching for tunnels. Before their trip was over, it was a good bet they’d have to cut bait and fire the harpoon anchor cannon at least once more.

  “We still know so very little about Helena.” Cait sighed. “A mythological creature originating in Greece. Pale. Dark hair. Gold-rimmed gray eyes. Legs possibly covered in scales.”

  “Did he say nothing more when I was,” Jack cringed, “out?”

  “Oh!” She sat up straighter. “He more or less confirmed that Helena uses pituitary glands to enhance her own fertility. Extract or consumption,” she shook her head, “he wouldn’t elaborate.”

  “Relevant.” Jack grimaced and set aside his teacup. “Even if it is information capable of curdling milk.”

  She brightened. “He did mention meeting my biological father, commented upon his inexplicable appeal to the ladies, hinted that I might have yet more half-siblings. And I have the entirety of his name now. Kālūnāth Sapera.”

  “It’s something,” he said.

  “It more or less confirms the obvious. The sapera is a twirling snake dance performed in India… and a name given to Indian snake charmers.” She shrugged. “I’ve read so many books. But tell me, how on Earth did you manage to free us?”

  As he recounted his daring scheme, her mouth fell agape.

  “I managed to grab a single book from the mad scientist’s shelf.” He handed her a leatherbound notebook, the only physical spoils of their adventure.

  “I’ve not yet have time to study it closely, but…”

  Cait cracked the notebook open upon her knees but, as it was all in Greek, could do no more than study the sketches and diagrams as she flipped through the pages to alight upon—

  She gasped. “Designs for the pituitary extractor?”

  “Rudimentary plans.” He grinned. “But all neatly laid out and guaranteed to set the Thorntons agog. Let’s hope he and his wife can make sense of them.”

  Shouts rang out from the train below. Loud whistles blew. The train slowed.


  “Rest now.” Standing, Jack smoothed a hand across her hair, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips. A comforting peace engulfed her, steadying and calming her pulse. “If you wish to resume our hunt upon reaching London, you’ll need every ounce of strength. I’ll fix things below with the engineer.”

  The quiet woke her.

  No engine rumbled. No wind rushed past air rudders. Nothing clattered or clanged or whistled or slammed.

  There was nothing but silence and the thick, soft cloud upon which she floated.

  Cloud?

  Cait cracked an eye open.

  Mattress, she amended. One her husband shared. Fully clothed, he slept beside her. Another first for their marriage.

  Holding silent and still, she mapped the features his coal-dusted face. Dark eyebrows arched. Lashes fanned outward upon cheeks. A tiny scar marked the corner of one eye. A long nose bent ever so slightly at its bridge. Full lips surrounded more by beard than scruff.

  But he was no angel in repose.

  An arm shot out and caught her about the waist, and a moment later, she was beneath him, pinned to the cloud by the heft of his weight and the gleam in his eyes.

  A fallen angel, perhaps, for he set about scraping his teeth up her jaw to murmur in her ear. “Dragged once again to my bed but, this time, not a soul in London knows we’re here, and I’ve not a whisper of guilt about having my way with you. We needed sleep, and now we both need something else.”

  His stiff, swollen member pressed against her thigh leaving no doubt as to what he had in mind.

  “We’re filthy,” she objected half-heartedly, squirming. “Hay. Sweat. Soot.”

  “Don’t care. I want you anyway.” He tipped her face away, and the wonder that was his mouth slid down the column of her neck. “And the sheets are already ruined.”

  Point taken. Was this a step up from their tumble in a barn? With heat pooling between her legs, she was half-tempted to hike her skirts and let him slip inside her without preamble. But, much as she wanted him, she wanted something… more. A chance to look at him, to feel him. All of him.

  “Clean first,” she insisted, pushing at his shoulder.

  He heaved a long sigh. “If you insist…” He rolled again, hauling her off the bed and onto her feet. He spun her about, unfastened her waistband, and shoved the mass of her ruined skirts to the floor.

  “Where are we?” She unhooked her bodice, tossed it aside, then set about adding to a growing pile of clothing destined for a rag bin.

  “Welcome home, wife.”

  What with a brief courtship involving a murder investigation, an expedited marriage of convenience, and an all-but-deadly whirlwind of a honeymoon, Cait knew nothing about her husband’s holdings.

  Save this wasn’t the Albany.

  “Home?” Stripped down to her undergarments, she turned, taking in the large, airy room as she plucked free the last of her surviving hairpins. Unadorned white walls, curtainless windows, a bare floor. Nothing but a bed that only began to fill the space.

  “Your husband is the owner of a newly-built Langston townhome, suitable for a wife and family. Were you not aware?”

  “How would I be?” A pin slipped from her fingers, dropped onto the floor and into a fraught silence with a faint ping. “Contrary to your stubbornly held conviction, I did not set out to trap you into marriage. I only wanted to be involved in a case.” She sighed. “True, when my brother told me only married women might pursue a career as a Queen’s agent, I might have begun to hatch plans, but…”

  “Any agent would have done.” Hurt, quickly hidden, crossed his face.

  “Yes. No.” She glanced away, shame-faced. “Not any agent. I’d spent all of two weeks in London, at the Lister Institute. Precious little time to meet anyone, let alone encourage any kind of courtship.”

  “When I became a convenient option.”

  “Is that all you can focus upon? Plots, plans, machinations of all kinds? Can an agent not allow for a bit of serendipity in his life?” Anger simmered. “Who carried me home to their apartment? Whose family betrayed us to the gossip rags?”

  “Me and mine.”

  “An unfortunate beginning,” she huffed, “but I thought we’d moved beyond this. We came to terms. Agreed a marriage suited us both.”

  “For many reasons.” His words were grudging.

  “You want to hear them spoken aloud?” She poked him in the chest. “Yes, you’re a high-ranking agent with field experience. Yes, your knowledge impressed me in the morgue. Yes, I was quite pleased that the first agent who stalked into my first case was a tall, handsome gentleman.”

  “Don’t forget available.”

  “Not only that, but willing to marry the likes of me.” She wouldn’t leave this grudge swirling in the air between them, poisoning their partnership. Fisting her hand in his shirt, she tipped her face upward and met his hard gaze with equal grit. “But if you’ve changed your mind, we could end this. If not an annulment, there’s divorce.”

  “I want nothing of the kind.” He trailed a finger across the edge of her jaw. “Why would I give up a stunning, smart and strong-willed partner? I only wanted more of a—”

  A love match.

  Aether. As plain as black ink upon paper, she could read it on his face. “I want that too.” She surprised herself with her words. Love wasn’t a requirement she’d set for marriage, but now that it was within her grasp? Yes, she very much wanted it.

  “With me?”

  “With you.” She swallowed, then, heart thumping, stepped onto unsteady ground. “It’s a lot to ask of three days, extraordinary though they’ve been.”

  “It is.” He closed his eyes. “Is there a chance?”

  Her heart jumped, fluttered as she lost another piece of the four-chambered organ to him. She reached up and brushed her fingers over the roughness of his jaw. “Every chance.”

  At that pronouncement, he bent to press a hard, quick kiss to her lips. “Then, as my wife, you will need to tour the premises.”

  “Such as the basement?”

  “Eventually. Much as I know you’d like to assess the furnace surrounds for herpetological colony possibilities—a proposition which will make hiring staff difficult—we should start with the bathroom.” He pulled his shirt over his head with a single hand, grinning when her gaze snagged upon his torso. He backed away. “A modernized townhome possesses modern amenities—all newly installed.”

  “And in need of testing?” She pressed a hand to her chest, enjoying this playful side of her husband. “Such words of endearment.”

  Jack laughed. “Experimentation, the way to my wife’s heart.”

  She opened her mouth to ask something about the depth of the tub, but his hands fell to his waistband and, a heartbeat later, her question was forgotten as the presence of a naked man—her naked man—refocused her priorities upon a more enticing benefit to their marriage.

  One they’d already enjoyed. Still, explorations had been limited in the hayloft, half-dressed as they were. Full nudity—with her husband’s rampant interest on display—was an entirely new experience.

  Heat rose to her cheeks. All that had been inside her, would be again, as soon as—

  “Come. I’ve a mind to investigate the uses of one household appliance in particular.” With the devil in his eyes, he caught her hand and tugged her into an adjoining bathroom of grand proportions. One fixture held his undivided attention. “The possibilities are endless, wouldn’t you agree?”

  In a marble-lined corner stood a magnificent shower. Ringed by a fencing of perforated pipes, adorned with knobs and valves to shunt hot and cold water this way and that, it was crowned by an enormous shower head.

  “For washing up?”

  “For more than that.” With a few twists of his wrist, water cascaded from rings of pipes overhead. He dragged her into its midst.

  “Jack!” Her cry was a sharp protest at the cold water that poured down upon them, dousing hair, soaking her shift until
it clung to her, translucent.

  “It’ll warm.” Hooking his fingers about the garment’s straps, he slid them down her bare arms, dragging the neckline’s edge of wet ribbon and lace to the pebbled tips of her nipples. Eyes dark, he let it hang there as he lifted his gaze to hers.

  “Shall we conduct our first experiment?” His voice grew full of promised pleasure as the water grew warm. “Fully assess the rewards of involving such a contraption in marital relations?”

  Steam billowed upward. Her finger traced a path across the damp hair upon his chest. “Will the pipes stand up, one wonders, against the force required to elicit an explosive finish?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” A final tug dropped her shift to the floor.

  Then his mouth was on hers, working its magic, both scattering her thoughts and narrowing them. There was only him. Her. And wet, warm pleasure.

  Soap skimmed over skin as they explored each other’s shapes. Her hands slid over broad shoulders roped with muscle, an impressive chest and a tapering waist before they finally reached the prize beneath.

  An intake of air scraped over his teeth as she cupped him, wrapped her fingers about his hard length and gave a none-too-gentle yet encouraging squeeze.

  “Vixen.” His hands caught her hips and spun her about, pulled her back against him. One hand lifted the weight of a breast, while the other slid over her belly, slipping into the cleft between her legs to toy with the swollen nub begging for attention. All while water streamed down them.

  It was heaven.

  It was also torture.

  Edging ever closer to a peak, her hips flexed. Rocked against his erection. It was too much and not enough.

  She turned in his arms, nipped at his chest. “Phase one assessment?”

  “Full marks.” He gripped her chin, tipped it up to extract a deep kiss. Tongues tangled. Lips were nipped. “Phase two?”

  “Please.” She hitched a leg up alongside his thigh. “I need you.”

  His hands captured hers, lifted them overhead—and wrapped her fingers around a pipe. “Hold tight.” He hooked an arm beneath her knee, then, as their eyes caught and held, pushed into her. Slowly. Inch by inch. Until he was fully seated.