Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (7 page)

Holding the metal orb in one hand, he started to turn the crank on the sphere’s end. Rings within the orb began to spin. Faster and faster they turned as Denisov wound the device. Blue light sparkled to life within the apparatus, first in thin filaments, then with greater strength, until tendrils of electricity spread outward and covered the device. For that’s what Denisov appeared to be doing: creating electricity. She would have thought generating that kind of charge would cause him pain. But as the light spilled outward and illuminated his face, he showed no sign of discomfort.

In truth, he looked like an elemental creature, all lurid light and hard angles, the rings in his ears glinting and his eyes ablaze. She didn’t know whether to be frightened or enthralled.

“I think it’s charged enough, Captain,” Akua shouted above the din of gunfire.

Daphne glanced aft. She could just make out the form of the pursuing Russian airship. As Denisov had said, the clouds seemed to provide no impediment to the enemy’s chase. But what, exactly, was Denisov doing that could give the
Bielyi Voron
any advantage?

“Shield yourselves,” he directed. “Especially you,” he added with a commanding look at Daphne.

She and the others did as they were bid. She stepped back from the mortar and lifted her arms to protect her face. Yet she couldn’t resist peering through a small gap between her arms to see what he was doing.

“Prepare ether tanks for venting,” he shouted above the din. Crewmen yelled back their readiness.

He dropped the crackling metallic sphere into the mortar. It immediately shot out with a low
thunk.

Lowering her arms, Daphne watched the sphere arc into the clouds. Sizzling bolts of blue energy shot from the device. The artificial lightning threaded through the cloud, spreading like a jagged web with a snapping, crackling sound. It seemed to excite the energy within the clouds, and within moments, pale yellow filaments of electricity sparked to life.

At the same time, the brass orb split open and shot the azure-colored gems into the clouds. The clouds darkened into bruises.

She could feel it, smell it—the sulfuric tang of a gathering storm, moments away from bursting into full fury. The blue gems had to be some kind of storm seed, something she’d heard rumors about, but never actually seen. Now she’d not only seen them, but within moments, she’d be in the middle of their creation. A storm that would outpace anything from the Bible.

“Brace yourselves,” Denisov said.

Though she didn’t know what to expect, she held tight to the railing, bracing her feet wide.

He turned to the men at the ether tanks. “Vent them!”

The crewmen threw several levers. And the world fell from the sky.

The airship dropped rapidly, careening downward sharply. Her stomach did the same. A moment’s blind terror. They were crashing! They’d plunge into the sea and sink to the bottom before anyone who survived the fall could have a chance to swim to the surface.

But the ship’s free fall lasted only a moment. The next second, the vessel shot forward with incredible speed. It was as if dozens of turbines suddenly roared to life. The speed felt like a punch in the stomach. She couldn’t catch her breath.

Unprepared for the velocity, she half stumbled and half crumpled against the railing. Only her arm looped around the wooden balustrade kept her from tumbling completely to the deck. Or, worse, overboard. Her feet dug at the planks and her arm shook from effort. She was about to tumble right over the rail.

“Blyat.”

The huge, hot edifice of Denisov suddenly covered her, anchoring her down. His body formed a protective wall around her, his hands gripped the railing, effectively caging her. A typhoon couldn’t dislodge her, not with him holding her steady.

His front pressed to her back, close as interlocking puzzle pieces. His skin carried the scent of leather and hot metal. He felt hard all over, solid as tempered steel, not an inch of give anywhere on his body. His breath was warm as it fanned across her neck and cheek. If she turned her head just a little, their lips would touch. Thinking of this, another kind of heat spread low in her belly.

“Told you to brace yourself,” he growled.

“I did,” she shot back, forcibly ignoring her awareness of him, and the almost intimate nature of their position. “Had no idea we’d be flung forward as if shot out of a cannon.”

“Not a cannon, but when we vent the ether, it gives us an extra boost. We lose some height, but it’s worth it for the speed.”

She peered through the poop deck railing. The storm raged behind them, massive and dark as judgment, its peals of thunder and bolts of lightning seeming to crack the very sky apart. The device and storm seeds had created that—part of the marvel of modern science.

At least it was behind them, the venting of ether having pushed them ahead of the tempest.

“The other airship can do the same, though,” she noted. “Vent their ether to catch up with us.”

“They’re stuck in the middle of the storm. Too dangerous to try the maneuver in the midst of that.”

“So,” she said, hopeful, “we’ve lost them.”

He was more guarded, saying flatly, “Not going to breathe easy until I see nothing but night sky around us.”

And
she
could not breathe easy until he no longer anchored her body with his own. Not when she felt the rise and fall of his chest, or the unyielding strength of his form. It sparked an awareness she did not want, one she could not afford.

“I can stand on my own now.” Her voice was brusque, spinsterish.

After that initial, breathless burst of speed, the ship incrementally slowed. The black mirror of the sea below gained sharper definition as the
Bielyi Voron
decelerated.

“As you like.” Despite his disinterested tone, he straightened gradually, as if making certain that she truly had stable footing. He kept his hands on the railing, however, even when she stood fully upright.

They both stared at the tempest. Though they had put distance between the ship and the storm, it continued to rage, shaking the sky with thunder and flashing with lightning. Yet she couldn’t see the Russian ship. It had to be trapped within the storm.

She turned around, and found herself effectively pinned by Denisov against the railing. The span of a moth’s wing separated them. Her awareness of him climbed higher. They’d skirted the battle between the British and Russian airships, and evaded their pursuer. So why did her heart beat faster
now
?

He’s metal and flesh. A handful of technological components grafted onto the body of an ordinary man. Nothing else.

Yet he seemed far more than that.

“Have you used that evasive technique before?” she asked, striving to sound calm.

His grin was audacious. “First time.”

She felt her mouth drop open. “Was it dangerous?”

“Akua,” Denisov said over his shoulder, “was what I did just now dangerous?”

“Ridiculously so, Captain,” came the answer. “We had less than a five percent chance of surviving.” Yet Akua didn’t sound upset at all. He sounded … pleased. As if his captain’s reckless behavior was something to celebrate.

A skewed value system these mercenaries have.
Definitely something she would have liked to document more. Instead, she said aloud, “That’s a ninety-five percent chance that we could’ve been killed.”

“And if the
Zelyonyi Oryol
had gotten close enough, the odds were one hundred percent that we’d be blasted from the sky. I’m not much of a mathematician, but a five percent survival rate is better than none at all. We’re alive now. We’ve lost our pursuers. That’s all that matters.”

Indeed, Denisov fairly glowed with arrogant pride as he stared down at her.

Dear God … they’d come so close to death. But his actions, audacious as they’d been, had prevented that.

A scoundrel of the first order. Wild, impulsive. Acquisitive and perfectly willing to go to outrageous lengths to save his own skin.

Yet he wasn’t entirely self-serving. Had she fallen overboard when the ship had raced forward, the gold would be his, and he’d save himself a trip all the way to the dangerous Arabian Peninsula.

But he’d kept her safe. And she didn’t know why.

She ducked under his arm. “I need a drink.”

“There are two things you’re guaranteed to find on a rogue Man O’ War airship.” He offered her a roguish smile. “Outlaws. And an abundance of alcohol.”

O
NLY WHEN
M
IKHAIL
was certain that they’d lost the
Zelyonyi Oryol
and everything on his ship was relatively undamaged did he finally agree to leave the top deck. For security, he didn’t permit any of the lights throughout the ship to be lit. The crew knew how to move in darkness from years of practice. As for himself, seeing in the dark simply came with the improvements he’d gained with his implants. Something that had taken some getting used to—opening his eyes in the middle of the night and being able to see as clearly as if it were high noon.

A very useful skill when navigating the night skies, a pitch-black treasure house, or a woman’s bedroom in the smoky, seductive hours before dawn.

“Come with me,” he said to Miss Carlisle. It was a measure of how shaken she’d been by what they’d just endured that she gave him no argument, no quick retort.

Instead, feeling her way carefully, she followed him. They walked down the companionway. Once they were below decks, however, the darkness was thick as secrets, and the night vision she acquired topside seemed to fail her in the black corridors. She shuffled along, and he heard the slide of her hand along the bulkheads lining the passageways.

She started when he took her hand in his.

“Easy,” he muttered. “Just some guidance.”

“Yes,” she said. Then, with more strength, “Yes, that’s fine.”

Hand in hand, they continued down the passageway. Hers seemed tiny and cool in comparison to his, but it surprised him to feel small calluses on her palms and lightly edging her fingers. More surprising were the embers of awareness traveling from her hand to his, and up through his body. He’d been intrigued by her as a woman since the first moment he’d seen her, yet this went beyond his usual fast, simple want of a female’s bodily pleasures. In their shared touch, as he led her through the passageway, he had knowledge of her—the unexpected resilience in her hand, how that same fortitude moved through her, and the surprising amount of desire it stirred within him.

All from holding a woman’s hand. By God, had it been so long for him that this tiny touch affected him so strongly? He could barely remember the Portuguese courtesan he’d visited weeks ago, all the artful skills she’d employed as distant and uninvolving as if that night had happened to someone else.

Miss Carlisle’s breathing, which had calmed somewhat, grew shallow again. Tension in her hand, as if she was torn between gripping him harder, or pulling away.

The same warring impulses he felt.

He stopped in front of one particular door, glancing back at her. Her eyes were opened wide.

“We’re here.” He pushed open the door and led her inside. To her eyes, the room would be filled with ashy light and silhouettes of furniture, but she wouldn’t be able to guess where exactly he’d taken her.

When he released her hand, her fingers briefly curled, like she wanted to keep hold of him. Then they straightened, letting him go.

He moved through the chamber, closing heavy shutters. All the windows and portholes were covered, as well, throwing the chamber into a darkness as thick as it had been in the passageway.

Wryly, she asked, “Have you taken me to the brig?”

“This’d be a damn plush brig. Cover your eyes.” With all the windows and portholes secured, he lit a quartz lamp, keeping it at its lowest setting. Dim green light glowed.

Slowly, she took her hand away from her eyes, blinking in the light. She turned in a slow circle. He watched her gaze flick around the room, alighting here and there. Bookcase. Chest. Desk. Bed—built to his specifications.

“This is your stateroom.” She looked again at the bed. It certainly could hold two people comfortably, even if one was his size.

He didn’t consider himself a particularly imaginative man, but he had no trouble conjuring images of her splayed out there, white sheets rumpled around her slim curves.

Difficult to read the look on her face as she glanced from the bed to him.

“If you haven’t brought me here for a drink,” she said, “I’m leaving.”

He strode to a low cabinet and unlatched it. Cold air wafted out. He grabbed a bottle and two small glasses, and held them up. “This is more than a drink. It’s the essence of Russia.”

“Vodka.”

He set the glasses down on the table, and filled them to their rims. “My country may have turned its back on me, but I can’t change my Russian blood.”

Before he could even offer her one of the glasses, she took it, and swallowed its contents in one gulp. Closing her eyes, she exhaled a low, fiery breath, and gave a delicate shudder. Then held out her glass.

He considered, then discarded, the idea of warning her about the vodka’s potency. He had no plans to take advantage of an inebriated woman, but she was an adult, and if she wanted to get drunk, he wouldn’t play disapproving nursemaid. So he filled her glass again.

At least this time she didn’t immediately bolt down the vodka. She studied her drink.

“Every culture has its fermented beverages,” she said, swirling the vodka around in her glass. “One of the first things any civilization does is find a way to create a drinkable intoxicant. Egyptians and the Babylonians had beer. The Chinese fermented rice and honey. But many of the earliest uses of alcohol were spiritual. A way of gaining a higher consciousness, connecting with the gods.”

He tossed back his vodka, letting the cold burn all the way down to his belly.

When she finished her second glass of the spirit, he said, “You’re not searching for God right now.”

“But I prayed to Him only a few minutes ago.” She set her glass down and began to move restlessly through his stateroom. Observant as she was, he had no doubt she took in every detail, from the naval-issue desk to the rows of bladed weapons mounted on the bulkhead, taken from armories and ships from around the globe. His belongings were scattered through the cabin: pairs of boots, empty bottles, a half-assembled clockwork dirigible he never got around to completing. She saw all of this.