“Give me a minute,” Greyston drawled, “and I’ll join you. That’s a sight too spectacular to miss.”
They retreated a fair distance down the hallway, the three of them gathering in a shallow alcove.
“It’s done,” Greyston said. “We spoke to Harchings and Georgina—”
“Are you sure?” Kelan’s eyes narrowed on him.
“You really are going to ask me that every damn time,” Greyston grunted. “Yes, I’m sure. We tried and failed.”
Lily pressed a hand to the wall. She didn’t repeat Kelan’s question, but it pounded inside her head. She’d said and done things, she’d lived minutes of her life—she’d had thoughts!—all of which were now ghost fragments that might never be.
When she went back in time with Greyston, it was disorientating, but nothing compared to this. Their demon blood linked them. So long as they were touching, she retained awareness of both parallel time streams.
“Take a deep breath.” Kelan moved in front of her, blocking Greyston from her view. He placed his hands on her upper arms, capturing her full attention with his intense gaze. “Breathe, Lily.”
“I’m not panicked, I’m unnerved.” She took that breath, dragging a lungful of oxygen and Kelan’s scent into her. “This is the most disconcerting thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“I know exactly how you feel.”
Of course he did.
She looked into his eyes, her heart absorbing the bonds of this odd marriage. Last night they’d shared a bed and the only thing her husband had done was make her feel warm and safe. This morning they shared a brand new layer of understanding. “Next time, I’ll be more appreciative of your perspective.”
Kelan kept one hand on her arm as he turned to address Greyston. “There was no hope of convincing Harchings?”
“Georgina immediately hooked onto the notion we belonged to some Renaissance devil worshiping cult she once came across in Rome. After that, there was no way to convince her our demons are more real than theirs.” Greyston’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Harchings was more concerned with what we might have said to his wife than what we were trying to say to him. He was a heartbeat away from running us off his land when I—”
Kelan raised a finger, ordering silence.
A moment later, Evelyn turned a corner in the passage and spotted them. “What on earth are you huddling in the shadows for?”
Kelan opened their circle with an arm as she joined them.
“Evelyn, on my ride yesterday, I noticed the perimeter wall extends all the way around your lands,” he said, diverting the topic smoothly. “I’d like to send Armand and some of my men here next week to place protection runes along the base. They’d have to dig foundations across the gate openings to ensure the protection is continuous. Do you think you could persuade the duke to agree? You’d need to come up with a likely story.”
“Protection runes?” Evelyn’s voice dropped to a whisper, her gaze shooting to Lily. “You’re demon-proofing the castle?”
“Apparently.” Lily’s brows crossed on Kelan. Why am I always the last to know? But it was a good, solid plan. “Only as a precaution, Evie. A safe haven if the worst comes about.”
“Then protect away,” she said with a lightness that didn’t reflect in her eyes. “I suppose I’m hibernating here for a bit longer then, eh?” She looked at Kelan. “I could paint Devon’s castle pink and he would just be thrilled I have a project to keep me convalescing in the country.”
“They shouldn’t take too long,” Kelan assured her. “The markings will be drawn on the base of the wall, just below ground level. Your husband won’t even know they’re there.”
NINETEEN
Autumn always arrived in Great Britain by sea, and this year it was early. The air blew icy over froth-capped waters like an army of heralds on white steeds.
Greyston propped an arm on one of the boulders stacked to break the assault of spring tides and southern squalls. The makeshift wall was the last defence between The Ship Inn and the tempest moods of nature.
Hove wasn’t a port town; it wasn’t even a fishing village. It was a single road in the middle of nowhere, Hove Drove, that started at St. Andrew’s Church and ended five inches from the lapping waves with an assortment of huts and flint cottages assembled on either side. The isolation was a honey trap for illicit activity and impractical for honest trading, and Greyston had no doubts as to which category the mysterious Skimmer resided in. Neco’s contact had bade them wait for him by The Ship Inn while he made a quick trip to the church.
“Either he’s praying for a miracle to take us safely across the channel or he keeps this Skimmer stored in the church basement along with the rest of his contraband,” Greyston observed dryly. “Neither instils me with much confidence.”
Neco was his usual pragmatic self. “It’s just past noon. There’s still time to ride for Dover and make the evening ferry crossing.”
“The only part of that idea I don’t like is the two mile walk back to Brighton to collect fresh horses from the livery yard.” The hackney cab that had brought them here from the stables hadn’t waited around for a return fare. The population in Hove was less than five hundred and the small percentage that could afford a trip to Brighton were smugglers with notorious reputations in the area.
Neco processed and refined. “I could fetch the horses and be back within the hour.”
“Let’s take a look at this Skimmer first,” Greyston decided. “Our guest might balk at sitting a horse five hours straight and I’m loathe to lose her.”
A grin tugged at his mouth as his gaze went down the beach to Georgina. She stood with her back to them at the ocean’s edge, dressed for an adventure. They’d stopped by her uncle’s farm as they’d left Harchings Castle, where she’d swapped her house party wardrobe for a full-length oilskin coat the colour of coffee beans. Her hair fell in a single braid down her back and the small leather satchel slung over one arm was her only piece of luggage. He chuckled as he looked at the two carpetbags Neco hauled over his shoulder. She travelled lighter than either of them.
“The Ship Inn has rooms to let,” Neco said, spitting out solutions as Greyston raised problems. “If you’re willing to spend the night at The Ship Inn, I could arrange a carriage for the morning to carry us in style.”
Greyston pulled his gaze around to the ancient smuggler’s den, then to the blackened carcass of a coastguard station in the adjoining field that verified the cab driver’s tales of woe.
The brazen Hove smugglers had once pitched an open battle on the beach with the revenue men and emerged victorious. Defeated but not beaten, the revenue office had erected the coastguard station right next to the inn the smugglers used as their personal hive. A month after the station was completed, an accidental fire razed it to the ground. The station was rebuilt twice more, followed by two more accidents, and finally the revenue men were both defeated and beaten.
Greyston shook his head. “If you close your eyes in this place, you may never open them again.”
The clap-clap-clap of hooves on packed dirt drew his attention to the long, straight road. Three men and a donkey-pulled cart trotted down toward the beach. The contraption strapped to the cart was a work of dubious art. It looked like a gigantic bullet with the top sawn off, the body riveted to a bed of flimsy tin flaps as wide as the road.
“Come on,” Greyston said, walking along the wall of boulders to where the road crossed onto the beach. “But if they plan to fire us from the barrel of a cannon, I’m done.” He slid Neco a dour look and tapped him on the shoulder with his cane. “This is where you’re supposed to laugh.”
Neco laughed, a metallic clatter that echoed in the hollow of his throat.
Alerted to the commotion, Georgina turned to watch.
The nearly toothless greybeard who styled himself Lancelot called out cheerfully, “We’ll ‘ave ol’ Bessie unloaded in a jiffy and be on our way. Named for me missus, she is.”
&nb
sp; Greyston ran his eyes over the concave barrel of Bessie’s body as the donkey hauled its cartload to the end of the road. A stub-nosed chimney peeped from the rear, indicating some sort of steam propulsion engine.
Normally he’d grin and leap, but today he had two extra considerations. Georgina, and the fact that he couldn’t time-run so soon again to save their arses if disaster struck.
He moved to stand by Georgina as the men unhitched the donkey from the cart. “What do you think? Are we sailing or flying to Calais?”
Georgina snorted. “By the look of those flaps, I’d say we’ll be floating about in circles a couple of times before we sink.”
He chuckled, wrapping an arm around her to bring her into his side. “I’ll save you if we tip over. I’m a good swimmer.”
“I’ll save myself; I’m a superb swimmer,” she shot back. “It’s Neco I’m worried about. He’ll drop to the bottom like an anchor.”
Scenting the whiff of his exorbitant tariff burning up into smoke and ashes, Lancelot dropped his end of the cart and closed the small gap between them. “Ol’ Bessie here ‘as been to Calais and back more times an’ I can count. Ne’er had a single spot of bother, eh, Jock?”
The second man looked up at them and shook his head. His face was tanned to roasted nut and deeply lined, but his body showed not an ounce of fat or creaks. “Ne’er ‘ad a spot o’ bother, ne’er.”
Greyston glanced from the Skimmer to Neco. Another consideration if things went wrong. “What are your chances of surviving in the ocean?”
“Ninety-eight point five percent,” Neco said. “So long as you haul me out before I start to rust.”
“We hug the shore a good distance afore we set off across the channel. If you’re no’ comfortable, I’ll set you down in Dover.”
All or nothing. Greyston slapped a hefty wad of notes into the man’s hands. “I want that back if we die.”
Lancelot bellowed with mirth, stuffing his jacket pocket with newfound wealth. “We’ll split it a’tween ourselves to pay the reaper.”
“So,” Greyston said, jerking his chin past the man. “How exactly does this thing work?”
“On pockets o’ hot air,” Lancelot said, turning to help his men push the cart into the water. They wore thigh-high waterproof coveralls that clipped into their belts and kept them mostly dry. “Let’s get her settled, an’ you’ll see how Bessie lifts her skirt and farts.”
Georgina erupted into giggles. She tugged Greyston down to whisper in his ear. “Is he talking about the Skimmer or his missus?”
Greyston ran a hand along her arm. “God help the man, probably both.”
The men tipped the cart. The Skimmer slid off smoothly and the third man stood in the shallow waves to hold her steady. Lancelot took the helm and Jock climbed in at the back.
Then it was their turn, using the cart as a boarding plank. There were four rows of bunks that could sit two apiece, sunk low in the base of the narrow body and firmly padded. The Skimmer rocked precariously with each additional weight, then settled. Neco seated himself middle and centre, while Greyston and Georgina took the row behind him. The spare man stayed behind to take care of the cart and donkey.
Smoke puffed over their heads as Jock stoked the boiler. The Skimmer hummed to life with deep vibrations the padded seats didn’t fully disperse. The sides were so high and the bunks so low, Greyston could just see over the top, but he felt them rising one jerky inch after another. He estimated they hovered about a foot above the water when the puffing jerks stopped.
The helm had only standing place, with two long, curved handles for holding on and steering. Lancelot grinned down on them over his shoulder. “You’ll want to hang on to the bars at the end of your seats. She’ll be bumpy ‘till we clear the white water.”
Greyston pulled Georgina onto his lap and strapped her to him with his arms. “I’d rather hang onto you.”
She nestled her chin into the crook of his shoulder. Her gaze drifted up to him and her smile beamed pure delight. “I feel like a child on a carnival ride.”
He gave her a wolfish grin. “You can ride me anytime.”
The vibrations deepened and a shudder tore through the hull, the only warning they got before Bessie darted seaward with the speed of a bullet slicing turbulent hot currents. Every now and then they caught the crest of a wave; the impact jolted Greyston’s bones and nearly bounced him off the seat.
Once they were past the waves, Lancelot turned the nose in a wide arc and kept them on a steady course parallel to England’s coastline. With the air rushing past their faces, and Bessie thudding convection waves, further conversation was impossible.
Greyston’s arms tightened around Georgina, sealing every inch of her body to his. Her curves nestled and warmed, going a long way to compensate for the uncomfortable journey. Thoroughly cushioned and with nothing to look at except the tin container wall, they hadn’t gone far before she softened against him, nodding off. He rested his chin on her head and closed his eyes, absorbing the pleasure of how well they fit.
When they neared the chalky white cliffs, he gave Lancelot the nod to cut across the channel. The overcast sky dulled visibility, but even so it was only a short while later when he could discern the smooth outline of Calais’ sandy beaches. Greyston waited until they reached the breakers before rustling the sleeping beauty in his arms.
“We’re here.” He loosened his hold slightly so she could uncurl and take in the sight of their approach.
Lancelot steered clear of the busy docks and brought them in gently, flowing with the tide instead of bumping up against it, at a deserted cove a good few miles off course from the designated field where the Red Hawk awaited them.
“Oh, Grey, she’s magnificent,” Georgina sighed as the Red Hawk swooped down from the skies.
Neco had set out on his hike less than an hour ago. He must have sprinted the full distance.
Greyston tilted his head back and grinned, his heart warmed to both his ship and the woman who appreciated her. The Red Hawk was a feat of futuristic genius inside and out. The elliptical dynamics streamlined with precision engineering, the shell cast in lightweight aluminium alloy and anodised for a diamond-hard crust. Above, a single red sail dominated the sea of black canvases rippling through the Aether with gracious waves.
“And she doesn’t fart, thud, whop or shudder,” Greyston said darkly.
Georgina laughed. “Poor Bessie wasn’t such a bad ride.”
“Next time,” Greyston told her, “I’m sitting on your lap.”
“Perhaps I should amend that to you’re not such a bad ride, and your ship looks even more delicious; an enchanting little Cavalier with the attitude of a tiger in the wilds.”
“I know better than to ask, but where the hell have you seen a tiger in the wilds?”
“I haven’t.” Her gaze lit on him with dazzling warmth. “It’s on my long list of accomplishments that just need to be achieved.”
He ran a hand over her cheek and cupped her chin, lifting her mouth to his for a leisurely kiss. “You’re beautiful and spirited and adventurous and—sometimes—you’re mine,” he murmured as his lips brushed hers. “You amaze me.”
She gave him a cheeky smile. “If that’s your long list of compliments to woo a lady, it’s working.”
“They don’t call me a charming rogue for nothing.” He draped his arm along her shoulders and tucked her close as they turned to watch the Red Hawk touch down in the field of short grass and shrubs.
Her sails remained unfurled for the quick hop while the hull door dropped open from her belly. Greetings were shouted, Georgina introduced to the crew, and then they were airborne again, this time with Greyston in the pilot seat.
Georgina stood behind his chair, her arms looped around his neck with her cheek squashed to his jaw, enthralled by the two-hundred-and-forty-five degree view provided by the glass wrapped around the Pilot Cabin’s nose.
Greyston switched gears to the auxiliary oars. The Re
d Hawk arced gracefully into the upper Aether, gathering speed with a beautiful hum as he pumped the throttle.
“How fast will she carry us to Spain?” Georgina said breathlessly against his skin.
“We’ll be there in time to watch the sun bow out over Es Vedra.”
“William promised to act as my tour guide.” Her arms dragged over his shoulders as she pulled back. “If I don’t start exploring straight away, we’ll be berthed before I’ve made it aft.”
Greyston swivelled his chair around to watch her sway sensuously out the door. She’d discarded her coat when they’d boarded, and the dynamics of her sleeveless scarlet dress was every bit as streamlined as the Red Hawk…only her inner shell was much, much softer. The vixen will have the rest of my crew wrapped around that little finger before we hit the Bay of Biscay.
His groin tightened with a want that seemed to double up each time he had her instead of sating. Georgina Bonnington was trouble, and he intended to enjoy every second of it.
Grinning at the prospect of later tonight, his gaze went to Jamie, his second-in-command.
“So, how did William fare?” The lanky Irish youth had absconded from Evelyn’s service after a gruesome encounter with the demon Flavith. From the pan into the fire. “Is he ready to go back to driving carriages for an honest wage on solid ground?”
Jamie turned from the Piping Control Unit. “The lad took to scavenging like a Leprechaun to gold. Speaking of fool’s treasure, hunting for Ohran Bey’s lost caravan was akin to searching for a single hot grain of sand in a desert storm.” He wagged a flaming bushy brow at Greyston. “But you already knew we didn’t stand a hope in hell.”
Greyston leaned back in his chair and crossed his boots up on the pilot dash. “You had a lot more fun than me.”
“No demon activity?”
His crew had had no option but to believe the truth about demons in this world. They’d all been a hair’s breadth away from being reduced to crystallized husks by Flavith’s white fire.
The Dark Matters Quartet Page 65