Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles

by Zoë Archer

  “This,” he rumbled. “How we’re meant to be.”

  She gasped in response, “Yes.”

  He surged into her. Again. And again. Her hands gripped the railing, yet she pushed back into him, demanding as much as he could give her.

  His thrusts increased in tempo. He was more than an ordinary man, and the speed of his strokes made her moan and pant. This was a vision he’d prize forever: the lights of the city all around, the crescent moon above, and her, frenzied with pleasure.

  But he couldn’t let it end too soon. He slowed his pace, almost pulling out entirely, then plunging into her, inch by inch. Teasing her with the crown of his cock. And then fucking her hard, her breasts bouncing with each thrust.

  One of her hands released the railing to cover her mouth. Even behind her cupped hand, her screamed release reverberated through him.

  Then it had him, too. His climax came from every part of him, tearing him open with devastating pleasure. His orgasm went on and on. He gritted his teeth to keep his own shout muffled, and felt the burn in his throat from the effort.

  By the saints and stars, he’d never come like that before. His legs actually shook.

  For a few moments, all he could do was bend over her, pressing kisses to the juncture where her neck and shoulder met. His heart thundered in his chest. She turned her head to take his mouth with her own.

  Finally, he slid from her, and they both made sounds of loss. He gathered her close, their damp bodies pressed tightly together. She felt both fragile and impossibly resilient.

  She suddenly pulled back, her gaze alarmed. “Oh, God, we weren’t thinking clearly. What if there’s a child?”

  His own apprehension eased. “Man O’ Wars are sterile. Run too hot.”

  She relaxed back into his arms with a sigh of relief. Then yawned.

  Smiling to himself, he carefully disentangled them from each other, and began to dress her. She struggled to help, but her movements were languid and sluggish. When she was clothed, he fastened his trousers and pulled on his waistcoat. Without its buttons, it simply hung open, but he didn’t need it for warmth.

  He helped guide her back down to the nest of blankets on the floor. Her head pillowed on her arm, she curled close to him. Gently, he brushed strands of hair off her forehead.

  It had become more and more clear to him over the course of the night. She was lovely and courageous. She’d proven herself, and his doubts had receded. There was an inevitability about this, that they’d make love.

  But now that passion had been temporarily sated, those doubts flooded back into his mind. They both stood upon the deck of a rocking ship, direction uncertain, without a clear shore ahead. He saw a flicker of disquiet in her eyes, too, just before she dozed off.

  With her asleep in his arms, he waited for the dawn.

  DAWN HAZE KEPT everything in shades of purple and ash. The buildings were too crowded together to permit much morning light to touch the city’s streets. Though men and women moved through the avenues and alleys, bringing their wares to market, Medinat al-Kadib remained hushed, as if afraid to make too much noise and wake a sleeping dragon.

  Daphne felt as though she, also, should tread cautiously as she walked beside Mikhail toward their rendezvous with al-Zaman. Her sleep had been fitful, her dreams filled with images of her lying at the bottom of a pit of wires, electricity shooting through her body, with Mikhail standing at the edge of the pit, sneering at her agony. In her dream, she hadn’t been able to call out for help, for she’d wrapped the wires to her own limbs, and had only herself to blame.

  Jolting echoes of that pain shot through her now. Each step closer to the Café Ifrit only intensified them. A strange alchemy, to feel the wondrous afterglow of making love with Mikhail, and also the sharp stab of her conscience. When he learned the truth, the mistrust she’d overcome would rush back in gale force. She wouldn’t blame him if he hated her.

  He’d awakened her sweetly with a kiss. But they’d both been quiet since then.

  They neared the café. Despite the earliness of the hour, men were already—or still—at tables, drawing on their hookahs and nursing tiny cups of coffee.

  She couldn’t be a coward any longer. “Mikhail,” she rasped. “You need to know—”

  Al-Zaman and his two hired Man O’ Wars appeared at the entrance of the café. Though she wasn’t holding Mikhail’s hand, she could feel the tension coil within him when he spotted the Russian Man O’ War. The hatred between them was thick as coal smoke, and just as choking.

  Her parents weren’t with al-Zaman. Ice frosted along her spine. Perhaps they were kept somewhere nearby.

  “Ah, Sayidati Carlisle, and her gracious companion,” al-Zaman called out cheerfully. He beckoned to her. “Join me inside, and we shall break our fast together.”

  She glanced at Mikhail as opportunity slipped away. After I make the exchange with al-Zaman, she promised herself. I’ll tell him then.

  Though she feared by then it would already be too late.

  Much as she had no desire to eat, the trade couldn’t be made on the street. She followed al-Zaman into the café, all the way back to the private curtained chamber in which they’d met the night before.

  While al-Zaman took his seat, and his two Man O’ Wars stood behind him, a boy came in with a tray of coffee, hot bread, and dates and set it on the table. She eyed the food, her stomach roiling. And as poorly as she’d slept, coffee would be ill advised. She couldn’t even sit. All the while, Mikhail and the Russian Man O’ War glowered at each other.

  Al-Zaman either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Humming to himself, he took a cup of coffee and sipped at it, then smiled.

  “They do know how to brew a proper cup of coffee here,” he said contentedly.

  Her patience snapped. “I don’t give a damn if they serve cups of dung. Where are my parents?”

  Al-Zaman maintained his infuriating geniality. “The terms of our agreement required that you provide something first. Though, the intelligence traversing the street is that you were successful in your endeavor.”

  Impossible that Khalida’s guards would let slip word that the vault had been broken into. But doubtless that al-Zaman had spies all over the city, bringing him the latest information.

  “If you know we’ve got the damned thing,” Mikhail snarled, “then show us her parents.”

  “The astrolabe first,” al-Zaman said, “if you please.”

  Daphne pulled the object from her satchel. As she did so, al-Zaman’s eyes widened. A grin spread across his face. He made an impatient gesture for her to hand it to him. Still, she hesitated.

  “The bastard’s got us by the balls,” Mikhail said lowly. “He won’t make a move until he gets what he wants.”

  Slowly, she slid the astrolabe across the table. Al-Zaman snatched it up, cackling. He examined both sides, even going so far as to pull out a miniature optiscope to ensure its authenticity. Apparently, what he saw pleased him.

  “Excellent. Most excellent. How delighted my master will be.”

  “We’re pissing ourselves with glee,” Mikhail answered.

  “Now it’s time for you to honor your end of the bargain,” she snapped at al-Zaman. “My parents and their assistants. Immediately.”

  Tucking the astrolabe into a leather case, al-Zaman merely shook his head. “Oh, but my master wouldn’t dream of conducting such delicate business here in Medinat al-Kadib. No, for this undertaking, we require the safety of the desert.”

  Rage filmed Daphne’s eyes. “We did everything you asked—”

  “And beautifully,” interrupted al-Zaman. “Truly, no thief in known memory has ever gotten in or out of that vault alive. But my master insists that the final exchange for your parents will be made at his compound tomorrow. It lies a hundred miles south of the city. At the risk of redundancy, I must tell you that the defenses and fortifications of his compound are substantial. Even a Man O’ War”—he fixed his gaze on Mikhail—“will find it imposs
ible to breach. Who knows? In all the chaos of a battle, our guests might be hurt.”

  The warning was clear. Don’t try any acts of heroism. Play the game our way.

  Despair choked her. She had no choice. From the beginning, the reins had always been in al-Rahim’s hands. No matter what she did, he was in control. And if she were to try to subvert this in any way … she’d never see her mother and father alive again.

  “Tomorrow,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Tomorrow.” Al-Zaman took another sip of his coffee. “And do look a little more cheerful, Sayidati Carlisle. Soon, you and your parents will be united.”

  Without another word, Daphne strode from the chamber and from the café. She barely made it to an alley before her legs stopped working. She crouched down and dug her knuckles into her eyes. Every step forward only made the journey even longer. Naively, she’d believed she had only to follow the emissary’s directions, and everything would right itself.

  She heard Mikhail’s hurried steps as he followed her into the alley. His hand upon her shoulder was meant to offer comfort, but it only shoved the knife deeper.

  “What a black joke this life is,” she said, hoarse. “There’s nothing simple. Nothing direct.”

  She glanced up at his rasped laugh. “Oh, professorsha, if you ever believed that, you’ve been in the library for too long.”

  “Told you, I don’t spend much time in libraries.”

  He carefully pulled her to her feet, the compassion in his gaze like acid. “Good. The lessons learned out here are harder, but they’ll keep your arse in one piece.”

  A MESSENGER SCARAB was dispatched from one of the many kiosks offering the service. After they provided the clerk with the proper coordinates, the mechanical beetle whirred off toward the Bielyi Voron. The scarab carried the message that Daphne and Mikhail would meet the jolly boat outside the east city gates, and then they would return to the ship.

  On their way out of the city, he purchased for them a bag of pastries redolent of cinnamon, but she couldn’t manage a single bite. It took a considerable amount of assurance that she had no intention of eating. When she finally convinced him, he devoured every last one of the pastries, licking spices off his fingers. Just before they left the city, he also bought several pieces of roast lamb and devoured those, too. Dimly, she remembered hearing that Man O’ Wars required more food than an average person to fuel them, which meant that he had to be starving, having eaten nothing since they’d arrived in Medinat al-Kadib.

  She only hoped that the food he consumed as they strolled out of the gates left a sweet and savory taste in his mouth, because what she had to tell him would certainly be bitter.

  The sun climbed higher into the sky, gilding the outer walls of the city, as she and Mikhail walked out to meet the jolly boat. Several vendors had set up stands outside, not wanting to pay the exorbitant taxes to sell within the gates, and they called out to her and Mikhail, offering dried fruit, clockwork toys and tools, sticks of incense. Though their cries quieted a little when they caught sight of Mikhail’s intimidating figure.

  She barely heard the vendors, too absorbed in her own thoughts.

  The established rendezvous point was some half a mile outside the city, at a dry wadi where a lone shepherd boy tended his herd of goats. The animals nibbled at weedy plants growing in the shade, occasionally making their uncanny bleats, while the boy crouched at the edge of the ravine, more interested in the two Europeans than his herd.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked him.

  The boy only stared back.

  Well, there was no risk that he’d go telling tales. This was as good a time as any to speak. Even so, she clambered down into the dry gulch and paced along its length. Mikhail kept pace beside her.

  “Men with tiny cocks always boast about how massive they are,” he said. “Al-Rahim’s no different. He’ll shake his shriveled prick at us, but we’ll cut it off.” He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Daphne, we’ll get your parents back.” Absolute conviction was in his voice, and she wished so fervently that she could simply sink into the certainty and comfort he offered.

  “I lied,” she said without preamble. “Not merely about the gold, but … something else.”

  He frowned at her, as if trying to decipher her words. Then, understanding dawned. His frown deepened into a scowl. “Muddying the damned waters. Again.”

  She had to speak quickly, purge the poison. “What I said to you the other day, that I would pay for my parents’ release by leading al-Rahim to an ancient diamond mine—I wasn’t speaking the truth. There is no mine. There’s nothing.”

  He pulled away abruptly, taking several long strides as if to keep her out of his reach. Pain twisted his face, yet his words seemed almost offhand. “I could set a watch by your deception.” Turning back to face her, he gave her a ghastly imitation of a smile. “Or maybe what’s most reliable is the fact that you played me for a fool—again. And used your honeyed little body to clinch the deal.” His gaze raked her, unforgiving.

  “It wasn’t like that. I wanted to tell you sooner—”

  He stalked toward her. “What the hell were you planning on using as payment for your parents’ release? No more lies.”

  For the briefest moment, she hesitated, and this made his expression darken even further. He’d never looked as fierce as he did at that moment.

  When her fingers went to the buttons at the top of her blouse, he snorted. “Sweet as you were, professorsha, I’m not so drunk on your pussy that you can distract me.”

  His deliberate crudeness felt like a slap, but she continued undoing the buttons until she could reach inside her blouse. She tugged out the necklace, with its three large stone beads, and unfastened it.

  Fumbling through her satchel, she produced two flasks, then crouched down. She set the necklace on the ground, opened the flasks, then poured their contents over the stone beads. An acrid froth bubbled over the surface of the beads. When the froth subsided, the dull stone casings were gone, revealing their true contents.

  Mikhail cursed. Floridly.

  She dug a kerchief out of her satchel, in case any of the chemicals lingered, and used it to pick up her necklace. Sunlight gleamed off the three beads—only they weren’t beads, but three dazzling star sapphires. They glittered like a constellation brought down from the heavens.

  “These.” She stood. “I planned to pay the ransom with these.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at the gems. A mercenary like him knew their value.

  “Where’d you get them?”

  “Liquefied all my assets, all my savings. I have nothing else. Not even my books.”

  He shot his hand out and snatched the necklace from her. Words of protest died on her lips.

  “Give al-Rahim this,” Mikhail growled, “and you’ll just be paying for your own death.”

  “The terms of the agreement … his code of honor—”

  “Means shit. He’ll take the jewels, kill you, kill your parents, then pin it all on Khalida. Snap her ties with Britain completely and come out of the whole thing like a goddamn conqueror.” He sneered at her. “Profit’s the only carrot for scoundrels.”

  The cold in his eyes numbed her. “The sapphires are all I have. Without them, I’ve got no way to free my mother and father.”

  A shadow passed overhead. Glancing up, she saw the jolly boat circling for its approach and landing.

  “Ah, now the professorsha speaks the truth,” Mikhail sneered. “These gems are going to pay for your parents’ release, except you won’t be paying al-Rahim. You’re paying me. Finally.” The precious stones disappeared into the grip of his massive hand. His smile was icy as the tundra. “And for that payment, I’ll free your parents.”

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  MIKHAIL BARELY NOTICED the jolly boat land, or Herrera calling out a greeting. His attention was solely pinned on Daphne, staring at him with a look
of guilt and horror.

  The necklace in his hand felt like a rope of fire. Another deception she’d used on him.

  Hell—what was this sensation between his ribs? To become a Man O’ War, he’d had to endure an hours-long implantation procedure, without benefit of anesthetic. Until that point, he’d never experienced such pain, the telumium filaments attaching to his heart felt as though Hell itself ripped through his chest. But he’d known that the pain of the procedure would be an agony.

  Nothing prepared him for what he felt now.

  He didn’t understand it. Where this pain came from. The first time he’d caught her in a lie, he’d been angry.

  Oh, he was angry now. But this pain … didn’t make any damned sense. Like he was torn apart from the inside out.

  Mercenary—that’s what he was. Criminals and liars were as routine to him as typewriters and ledgers were to clerks. Yet somehow, coming from her … it made him want to howl like a wounded animal.

  He’d been betrayed once by someone close to him, too, two years ago, making this agony all the sharper.

  She licked her lips. “You’ll free my parents?”

  “For this”—he held up the sapphires—“I will.”

  “Or you could take the jewels and leave me here.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Mistrust from the woman who’s played me false twice.” His glance took in the dried and nearly barren ravine, a fitting place for them to have this argument. “Look around you. See many allies lining up to help? Don’t see the British soldiers lining up in all their crimson glory. No Italian airships sweeping in out of the sky. And gallant knights on white horses only exist in books. Go it alone against al-Rahim. Or rely on me to get the job done.”

  She stood motionless, her face ashen. He didn’t want to notice the suffering and regret in her eyes. Told himself he was seeing what he wanted to see. That her deceit had hurt her as much as it had him. More lies, but these were falsehoods he told himself, which made him even more of a fool.