by Landra Graf
The singer shook her head. “Not until he,” she nodded at Ian, “answers my questions.” She turned to look at him. “Why do you need me to tell you this? Luther would’ve given you a rendezvous.”
Ian let go of Sorella and moved toward the singer, donning an arrogant smile, his eyes hooded. This was the man who flattered and spun tales, the one she wanted nothing to do with. Did he play the same cards with her, and she’d just been too blind to see?
“Eva, dear.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “He gave me a rendezvous, but tracking this bounty took longer than planned.”
“And Patrick in Nordberg? He would’ve gladly told you where to go.”
Shit. The man she’d knifed without a care. Now the canary would never sing for them. “He was captured and taken by inspectors. No doubt he’s been interrogated and silenced. They picked him up right as I got to town. Trust me, I don’t want to ask you, but I’ve got no choice. This is the last favor, and the last time I’ll ever put you in danger.”
When had a man other than Bastille ever lied for her? A lump lodged in her throat, dropping to her stomach as the singer let out a shrill laugh.
“Danger? From you? This girl is more dangerous than you ever were. Stupid idea to bring her here. It will take pure luck for you to get out of the embassy alive.”
Then she turned those kohl lined, gray eyes on Sorella and narrowed them. She bunched the ends of her white fur stole between clenched fists, her high cheek bones flushed. Even angry, this woman looked majestic.
“You know the threat she poses. Everyone wants to get a hold of her…if they can. Why not trade? I’ll tell you where Luther is if you give me her. My place in the embassy isn’t secure. They are always worried about spies. I’d be able to prove my worth.” Her smile was purely feral, not fragile at all, but as bent at the core as so many in the world. She was also extremely self-reliant. No wonder Luther admired her.
“I can’t, Eva. Without her, the ship won’t fly. I’d be dead attempting to board without the captain by my side.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Eh, figured as much, but had to give it a try.”
“What do you want for the information?” Sorella asked. No use beating the topic to death. If they were in for a fight, she’d rather start her way toward the exit now.
Instead of a quick answer, Eva adjusted her dress and trimmed the edges of her mouth with an index finger and thumb. She was drawing their encounter out, making things worse. Enough. Sorella moved, striking like a snake suddenly uncoiled. She latched onto Eva’s wrist and twisted, holding her hand at an awkward angle. With one tweak, the delicate bone would snap in two.
“Ow! Let go.” The exclamation was half-hearted, more for show than anything.
“I don’t have any more time for amusements. You may enjoy high-risk, dangerous situations, but I’ve got plans for my future. Now tell us where he is.”
“I wouldn’t joke with her,” Ian chimed in. “I’ve seen her stab people for less.”
The canary smiled, respect in her eyes. “So have I. Definitely appreciate a lady who’s not quite a lady. Let me go, and I’ll tell you.”
Instinct told her to cut her losses, but she remembered what Ian had said about less being more, and how she should let a threat do the work for her. “If you’re playing, I’ll break your arm.”
“I’d expect no less.” The words were without artifice, and in the same smoky voice she used on stage.
Sorella released the singer and stepped back, closer to the one person in the room she could trust. He didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around her and squeeze her shoulder. Have I impressed him?
“Luther is hiding on the Isle of Grimsey, north of Iceland.”
“Why the hell is he hiding there?” Ian lifted a brow.
“Would you look for him in a place where the average temperature is barely above freezing?” The singer parried. Sorella would’ve looked anywhere, even unlikely places, if the source was solid. Anywhere equaled a place to hide and how well you evaded detection came down to your disguise.
“Thank you, Miss Sonne.” Time to go. “Now, how do we get out of here?”
***
He wanted to crow when they learned The Cursed’s location. He’d never admit that, for a moment, he’d thought she wouldn’t tell them. In that brief second, he’d believed the singer wanted them to be caught.
Instead, holding a small lamp in front of her, she guided them through a narrow back passageway with twists and turns everywhere, most likely one of many secret corridors inside the embassy. The possibility still existed that she’d turn on them; give them up for whatever reassurances she could gain. He understood the need for security. Luther’s dish had been discarded before. Hell, every time the man left her, she swore up and down she’d never be abandoned again.
“Your ship will be on the roof,” Eva said, grabbing a fistful of red beaded gown in each hand before she started up the staircase which loomed before them.
Sorella followed, and Ian took up the rear, glancing back every few steps, searching for pursuers. He’d embrace the Liberté’s deck if they made it out alive, and he’d make sure he kissed his captain.
After their conversation with Eva, he had even more questions than he’d had earlier in the day. He was still dealing with the irony that everyone recognized her but him. He, the pride of New Orleans, heir to one of the founding bloodlines of the city, had failed to identify someone everyone knew.
They’d made it up the second flight of stairs when his captain stopped and looked over the railing. “They’re coming,” she whispered. “Hurry.”
No sense in being quiet as they clipped their way upward. Raised voices floated up from beneath them, voices calling out in Deutsch for them to halt, to surrender to the kaiser. He’d rather jump to his death than be strung up in some work camp.
Then he saw the spark. German enemies held electo wands in their hands. One touch to the metal staircase, and they’d be done for. Time to deploy Bastille’s EMP grenade. He stopped on the next landing, lifted his shoe, and slid open the compartment on the heel.
“What are you doing?” Sorella asked, running back down toward him.
He waved her away with his free hand. “Keep going. I’ll be right behind you.”
For once, she didn’t remind him who was in charge or question his decisions. She dashed past him, slinging her dress train over her shoulder. He smiled at the pretty view he won of her ankles. If everything went as planned….
He grabbed the top and bottom of the small grenade with both hands, pulled, and turned each section opposite the other. One click meant the bomb was armed. Then he leaned over the edge and dropped it down.
Clambering up the stairs, he heard the bomb go off. The angry shouts confirmed that the deterrent worked. As he looked up, the girls were pushing open the door to the roof. Only a few more flights, and he’d be right there with them.
Then a revolver cocked, the sound of the chamber rotating into place halting him. “Stop, dieb!” Stop, thief.
“Germans shouldn’t play with American weapons.” Ian turned and raised his hands in the air to signal surrender. Sure enough, a soldier was training a gun right on him. These guys packed more than the typical electric based weapons preferred by the kaiser.
A high pitched whistle rent the air, and the sharp end of a silver balisong pierced the soldier through the heart. No helping it. The dead man’s reflexes triggered the gun, and Ian dropped to the floor, hoping the bullet missed him.
His remaining charge up those steps went without incident, and he enjoyed the fresh, chilly night air that hit his face as he emerged onto the roof. Eva stood by the door, and Sorella already had an arm wrapped around a platform disc tether.
“I’m sorry, Eva. Maybe you should come with us. You’re not safe.”
A single shake of her head. “No. Luther wanted me to stay, to gather intel. I’ll weasel my way out of this. But I wan
t you to give him a message for me.”
Eva deserved better than that, so much better.
“Anything.”
“Tell him I’m only waiting two more weeks. If he doesn’t come, I’m gone, and I’ll sell whatever I know to the highest bidder.”
He nodded in agreement, and that’s when another shot rang out, this time from above.
The singer’s body dropped, and he saw blood beginning to seep out of a wound on her right arm, staining her mink. “Eva!”
“No,” she waved him away. “I told her to make it believable. Get out of here.”
Ian dashed for the other platform, wrapped his gloved hand around the twined steel, and looked on with regret. Abandoning a woman wasn’t part of his code. The guilt twisted his insides like the coiling ropes on board the ship above him.
The soldiers stormed onto the roof right after he’d been pulled aboard. The ship took off with a burst of speed, reaching a high altitude in no time, soaring above the clouds that had rolled in since they’d been inside.
He never saw whether they’d grabbed the singer, but she’d weathered many storms. He’d deliver her message to Luther and pray the man wised up.
Chapter Twelve
Sorella crossed herself, thankful the merchant had made it on board safely. She tossed the rifle to Bastille and proceeded toward her helmsman, Gustave. He’d been with her since the beginning, another cast-off from the war. Missing one leg, he stood on a metal replacement and, never one to complain, looked at her now, a question in his eyes. He’d fought against the kaiser’s armies, faced those weapons. She understood if he never wanted to see a battle again.
“Our heading, Captain?” he asked. His gruff voice matched his low-brow wool cap and gray beard.
“The Isle of Grimsey, north of Iceland.”
He nodded and pointed the bow north toward the sea and away from danger. “Will this be the last stop?”
Rarely did he talk beyond asking which direction the ship needed to head, so when he spoke, she usually listened. If he queried, she replied, but for this question, there was no answer. “I don’t know.”
Her thoughts wandered to Ian, to the horrific look on his face when Eva fell. For a moment, she’d believed there’d been something between them, some emotional attachment. Why else would he risk precious time and potentially his own life to check on a woman who’d threatened their safety?
Even now, the merchant appeared out of sorts, tugging at his cravat and undoing the elegant knot to reveal the thatch of hair she’d imagined during their dance. She needed to get the hell out of this dress and quit worrying about a man’s inclinations, which seemed to be as unpredictable as the weather.
She patted Gustave on the shoulder. “Stay warm, and have me alerted once we’ve passed Britain.”
“Aye, aye.”
Then she headed for her cabin. Her shoes had cut into her heels for the last part of their adventure although the adrenaline of their escape had made her numb to the worst of it. Her body had calmed down since then, and now the pads of her feet ached along with her heels. Time to rest, quietly rejoice the day’s conquests, and repent her sins. The Cursed were within their grasp. A day’s trip, since the ship’s speed was slower in the colder climate. Her technicians had assured her that to run hot risked dangers she didn’t want to deal with.
Once in the corridor, she hiked up her train, keeping it clear of her feet, and shuffled toward her room. Heavy boots sounded from behind her, clipping toward her with a determined pace.
“Captain?” Ian called out.
She stopped in front of her door and turned. “What do you want?”
A bit of an attitude, yes, but she had good reason. The bastard had lied to her.
“All the things you promised me,” he said, quirking the left side of his mouth into some devious half-smile that did strange things to her pulse.
What about Eva? “Really? Why cast aside your worries about the one we left behind?”
He trailed a finger down her cheek then. “What are you talking about?”
“Your connection to the canary. You nearly risked your life for her back there.”
“My poor assassin,” he clucked as fingers became a hand caressing her bare shoulder. “You’ve truly never known caring. I’d do the same for anyone risking their life for me. No special connection is needed beyond them putting themselves on the line, the same as me.”
“And you’re not angry?”
He leaned in and nipped at her ear lobe, sending a ripple of want through her body. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I shot Eva.”
“It’s only an arm shot, and I know the reason for it.” The words caressed her, lulled her into a desirous haze. “And you liked it.”
Goose bumps broke out on her skin at the thought. Yes, she’d enjoyed it as much as she relished the way his body pressed up against hers. Then want compounded into some hot, messy thing as he kissed the same flesh he’d gripped in his hand.
She fumbled for the knob behind her. A few blind attempts, and, finally, she turned it, pushed the door open, and backed away from him. Her chest tightened at the predatory stare he leveled at her, so unlike his playful self.
Yet he didn’t move forward. “Can I come in?”
Her only response, a single nod. The best she could do, her mouth having gone dry minutes before when he’d put his lips on her body. A bad idea for sure, but no sense in denying she wanted him like this, was ravenous for his attention and heated gaze. She’d been ignored as a child and eagerly cast aside for political goals. She’d been taught to discard her wants for the greater good, to seek only pleasure in pain…. Those ideals were rapidly burning away like smoke in the wind.
The door shut behind him, cutting off the world and sealing them in darkness except for the moon shining through her porthole. She prepared for him to charge her, to leap on her in desperation. Instead, he flicked the switch and bathed the room in light.
“That dress has been a source of extreme discomfort for me tonight.”
She slipped her shoes off, stepping down to the bare, cold floor. “Why?”
“It’s showing me everything I’ve been missing. You’re normally wrapped up in clothes that cover every patch of skin.” He prowled forward, removing his dress jacket and tossing it behind him. “This,” his hands caressed her body through her beaded gown, tracing the outline of her figure and making her knees go weak, “provides more for my imagination.”
As quickly as he’d started, he backed away. “Tell me who your father is?”
Drawing several quick breaths, she attempted to slow her pulse as she took a seat in front of her vanity. She’d kill his amorous ambitions with this confession for sure. “My father is the Prime Minister of Italy, Marcello Corvino.”
“The same prime minister whose daughter is supposed to marry the son of the President of the United States in less than six months?”
Here came the moment of truth, the moment when he’d learned the worst of it. “I am that daughter.”
“You’re the Sorella Corvino?” He phrased the words as a question instead of a fact. A hard pill to swallow, judging from the shock on his face.
She nodded and reached up to remove the pins from her hair, the long locks falling in waves to her waist.
A low-lidded gaze replaced his wide eyes, and he approached her with confidence. Spearing his fingers into her hair, he lifted the weight and then allowed gravity to drag the hair down. “Soft, like your skin…and I’m seducing Roosevelt Jr.’s bride-to-be. You’re boosting my ego, Captain.”
Seduce, a word she’d never used in conjunction with her or her body, a word implying the removal of clothes, the loss of her maidenhead, and the ability to kill this man without guilt. “How do you know I’ll let you?”
He knelt beside her. “I don’t, but I aim to try. A merchant believes in negotiation and perseverance, especially when seeking to purchase somethin
g he desires beyond all other things.”
“Am I a thing to be bought?” She arched her back, a mix of want and fear doing strange things to her insides. Hail Mary. He was a contradiction of everything she expected. He enjoyed her famous place in the upper echelons and found it humorous. In the same stroke, he compared her to goods to be bought and sold—poor words.
“No, you’re a woman to be worshipped.” Then all the right ones. “But I have to wonder why you’re hiding here, trading for time with cutthroats and the damaged instead of joining your future husband?”
A good question. “Because I refused to sacrifice my body for a political arrangement.”
“A very good reason.” Then he touched her again, this time grabbing the edge of one glove and pulling it down her arm, exposing her flesh, the move intimate, maddening. Moisture pooled in her vagina, a clinical word she’d learned in her study of human anatomy. To be a killer, one had to identify all parts of the body and understand the pain that could be imparted to each piece.
Yet his little caresses and small actions implied a large amount of pleasure could be dealt as well, unleashing a similar amount of discomfort on one’s fragile heart.
The glove peeled off the tips of her fingers, and he discarded it before moving on to the next.
“Do you plan to remove all my clothes without asking me?” Horrible how soft and weak her voice sounded. The commanding tone she normally employed failed her in the face of intimacy, and her knives were across the room. She’d lost one to the stupid soldier on the steps, the bastard who had dared to take away this man, this merchant—nay, this seducer—who moved at the pace of a snail and surveyed every inch of revealed skin with the concentration of a technician.
“Do you want me to?” Crouching beside her, he stopped then, and their eyes met. A flash sparked in his, a challenge he wanted her to meet.
Did she have the courage to go through with this? The ability to abandon herself to an act that would change everything? No more holding on to the possibility her parents would change their minds or the thought that she could escape marriage because people actually cared.