Winterblaze (16 page)

She made a sound that might have been amusement but had too much anger behind it. “I’m certain you would.” She brushed back a stray wisp of hair with a steady hand, then straightened a pillow, looking anywhere but at him, and he wanted to punch something, wanted her to punch him, as he deserved. But her voice grew composed. “You were tricked by something far more devious than yourself. You hadn’t a chance once Isley got his claws into you. What more is there to say?”

That he was a hypocrite? That he’d put their family in danger because of his selfishness? Winston had a dozen self-recriminations, and it irked him that she wouldn’t address a one. Instead, she retreated behind that shell of hers, where no one could see her pain or rage. Just as she always did. No matter what occurred, Poppy was an entity unto herself, and he was the one on the outside.

P
oppy slipped from the cabin and made her way below decks. Shortly after their argument, Win had left. God, she did not want to think of him now. She
refused
to think of him, or her child. For if she did, she would be screaming. Her life with Win had been manipulated? Her child’s fate in Isley’s grasp?

Blood filled her mouth from the force of biting her lip. She swallowed the metallic taste down with a curse. How dare Isley? She thought Win an exiled son of a duke. When really he’d given it all up for her. Her? At the cost of his soul, of their child’s. Black hate filled her vision as she made her way to the ship’s rear stairwell. Isley would pay.

She would search the ship, starting from the bottom. The demon had fled there, and Poppy had to believe that he was one of Isley’s minions. The change from first class to second was subtle. The decor, while not as ornate, was still fine, lovely even. There was simply less open space and more people. They moved about, bustling to the large dining hall or to the game rooms, library, or second-class
promenade. If anything, the feeling of excitement was somehow amplified here, for these people viewed this short voyage as an event, the holiday of a lifetime.

Unlike the shift from first to second class, descending into third class was like entering another world. Gone were the fine wood paneling, the wide halls, and plush carpeting. Her boot heels clicked against bare wood floors as she moved in and out of shadows, as the lights were spaced farther apart. It was noisier here too. The hum of the engines was more prevalent lower down, and the chatter of passengers echoed off of the bare walls. Someone was singing. An accordion wheezed and spat out a tune, and then a fiddle began to play along.

People moved through the tight spaces in droves, brushing her shoulders as they went about their business. Isley would relish this environment. Like most demons, he loved nothing better than to be around humanity. Their vitality gave him energy. Following the sound of the music, Poppy found herself in the dining hall, a Spartan place with whitewashed walls and wooden chairs pushed against them. Women chatted in groups of two or three, while the men gathered in larger clusters. Laughing children darted like minnows around the adults. Not a surprise to see them up and about. This was a holiday for them as well.

Lively music filled the air, and the floors shook with the beat of dancing feet. The men and women crowding the space had formed a circle around a group of dancers in the center of the room.

One dancer in particular garnered much attention. A spritely woman, no higher than Poppy’s shoulder, twirled and leapt. Kicking up her feet to the fast rhythm, she held the men in thrall and made most women smile. It was
hard not to when she carried such joy in her expression, her rounded cheeks pink with exertion and her eyes flashing. She had no partner; she did not need one. There was no question that her skill on the dance floor was unparalleled. Poppy edged closer, weaving through the crowd. The young lady tossed her head back and laughed as her heels slammed against the floor, faster and faster. The fiddler came closer, his bow flying over the strings with near inhuman speed. Faster, faster, the fiddle’s notes growing wilder. Gypsy music. Lovely, erotic, enticing.

Calls of encouragement rang out. People clapped. The fiddler, a long and lanky gent, grinned with devilish glee from behind his black beard.

Heart pounding along with the beat of the wicked music, Poppy made it to the edge of the dance floor. Excitement rushed through her like potent wine. Here was her quarry, beguiling the crowd and drawing them closer. Indeed, it was all she could do not to jump in and dance along, twirl about too. Holding her fists at her sides, she stared down her prey, knowing that the demon would feel her—if he hadn’t already. Sure enough, their gazes clashed, and the true devil flashed in those seemingly innocent eyes. Isley.

Poppy hardened her gaze, and Isley’s rhythm lost a single beat. It was enough to have Poppy grinning in return.
Bastard. Hiding away with these people. How many had he tricked already? How many souls were gambled away with false dreams and promises of better tomorrows?

The girl on the dance floor spun faster, her golden hair a blur as the music reached its crescendo and then, as if one, she and the fiddle stopped. Around Poppy, the crowd roared their appreciation, but her attention stayed on her prey. People surged forward to praise the girl who stood
panting and grinning as the fiddler slipped off to drink his fill of the vodka offered to him.

As for Poppy, she eased back to the door, knowing Isley would follow. The air was cooler in the hall. She moved toward a door marked
STAFF
. It was a simple thing to pick the lock and slip inside. The first class cargo hold was a cavernous space. That it encroached upon the third class passengers’ living space was no surprise. Poppy walked among crates lashed securely against the walls. The faint scent of coal smoke mixed with the wood of the crates. The vibration of the massive engines and the constant
thwump, thwump
of the paddle wheels that they powered was almost a living thing against her skin. Her bones hummed. But her mind and heart were calm. Behind her came the sound of the door opening once again and the click of a boot heel on the iron floor.

Poppy rested a palm against a crate. “You’re quite the dancer.”

A light, feminine voice echoed in the space. “I was lovely, was I not?”

Poppy turned to study the body that Isley had created for himself. Because it was a creation. Poppy did not know the specific mechanics of it, but Isley’s bodies were as real as hers, yet they were created not by God, but by Isley’s will. As far as she knew, he was the only demon able to do so. Other demons relied on possession or the stealing of a person’s blood to shift their shape into something else.

Impish and young, the female Isley preened. Poppy bit the inside of her lower lip. “I daresay you accumulated many offers after that display.”

Isley fluffed out his skirts. “Oh, plenty. Alas, they were all male, and I find I no longer enjoy pleasures with the male sex.” Pretty pink cheeks plumped on a smile. “As
there do not seem to be any Sapphos onboard, I do believe a change back to the male persuasion may be in order.” His eyes flashed white as he looked Poppy over. “And how is dear Winston?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Poppy leaned against the crate. Her muscles twitched with the need to lash out, and her jaw ached from keeping in the words she wanted to shout. He dared threaten her family. Her child. Her fists curled tight. “I must say, Isley, I am disappointed. Are you so afraid of facing me that you had to ensure our meeting was over open water where I cannot send you back to your prison?”

His white irises turned red. “Dumb luck will not be on your side this time, girl.”

“Face me on solid ground and tell me that again.” She itched to pull a blade free and slice his neck. If only to give him a pinch of pain.

Isley strolled closer, making the most of the girlish form he inhabited. Wide, working woman’s skirts flounced with each step. “We shall see.” He tossed a coy look over one shoulder. He was a mere ten feet away. Close enough that the scent of patchouli mixed with wood smoke touched her senses. His cold gaze slid over her once again. “Now that you have matured, you remind me of your mother. You have her enticing confidence and those severe, unforgiving eyes.”

“And you haven’t changed. Still a babbling bore.”

His lip curled. “What makes you believe my interest is in you? Winston Lane is rife with mental anguish.” His sharp teeth flashed. “Just the sort of snack I relish.”

“Oh, yes, this absurd notion that you have the rights to my child’s soul.” Bitterness filled her mouth, but she wouldn’t let it show.

“Not absurd. Your husband signed it away quite handily.”

Poppy kept her eyes on Isley but made no further moves. “Do not pretend for a moment that your endgame isn’t to bedevil me. Otherwise, you would not have sent that charming telegram.”

“And here you are.” Again, he grinned. “Running in to rescue another family member not worth saving.”

It proved too hard to keep her voice neutral. “Leave Winston out of this, and let us settle this once and for all.”

“No. He made the bargain. He has to work his way out of it.”

“He made that bargain because of me!”
Don’t fight him. Not yet.
But she could not stop from taking a step closer to him.

“Yes,” snapped Isley. “He did. And you get to suffer in the knowledge that your acquaintance with the solid, upstanding Winston Lane wrought his downfall.”

“Bastard.”

“No! I am the past that has returned to haunt you,” he said with sudden vigor. “I will watch you stumble, watch you fight, see you witness your man die and your happiness fade.” In a flash, he was right before her, not as the young girl, but as Winston.

Hatred burned in those winter blue eyes that appeared just like Winston’s. Not Win, she told herself. His scarred visage twisted with the violence of his anger. “You will feel what I felt as you hunted me those fourteen years ago. Feel the same fury as I did when forced underground by an ignorant girl in the midst of a tantrum.”

He leaned closer, his chest almost touching hers. “I will see you pay. And then I will take your child.”

Poppy struck, a hard punch to the windpipe. Isley
gagged, his forehead hitting her shoulder as he hunched forward from the hit. Poppy spun, grabbing his wrist and, in the same moment, slammed her elbow into the back of his. His arm hyper extended, and then the bone snapped at the joint. Isley screeched. His return hit caught her in the sternum. Poppy flew back, hitting the floor so hard that her brain seemed to slosh about in her skull as she slid several feet.

It was that jar to the body that set her thinking sanely once again. She could not afford such physicality. Not now. Isley stalked forward, rage igniting over his flesh in preternatural orange flames, his one arm flopping at his side, and looking so much like Winston that her heart turned over in her chest. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed one of the crowbars that hung on the wall.

Isley halted a step. His eyes gleamed as he laughed. “And what do you plan to do with that, Poppy Ann?” The grin grew evil, an abomination on Win’s face. “Pray I don’t get a hold of it and crack your arm the way you did mine.”

Poppy adjusted her grip. “Hurts, does it? Good.”

He was on her in the next breath. His fist caught her on the side of her head, and black spots burst over her vision.
Not Win, he’s not Win.
Poppy swung at the face she’d loved for so long, but Isley caught her, slamming her to the iron floor, then pressing his weight against her so that she could not kick out. His knees crushed down on her arms, keeping her from truly touching him as he grabbed her throat and bore down on her windpipe. She convulsed against the cold floor. The black spots before her eyes grew larger.

“I could crush your throat with one squeeze,” he whispered.

Win’s face stared at her, so cold, so detached. It might be the last thing she’d see. That it was not truly Win but a sick facsimile had rage surging through her limbs. She glared up at him.

“Go on,” she ground out. “Kill me as you did my mother.”

Isley paused as if he hadn’t expected her dare. His grip lessened a fraction. Poppy sucked in a draught of damp air. Isley frowned. “Why do you assume she was always in the right, girl?” Her teeth rattled as he gave her a shake. “What have her schemes brought you? Loneliness, a marriage of lies, your sisters’ disappointment and distrust?”

“Enough!” She would not listen to him spin his web.

His weight crushed down on her. “No, my dear. Not nearly enough. You go through life with blinders on, prancing about on tenuous moral high ground, and damn my eyes if you didn’t find a husband just the same.”

“So you seek to teach us a lesson, do you?” She laughed, her throat aching from his grip. “I shall be ill.”

Isley snarled, and he bent close enough to smell. “You could be like me. If you let go of these rules and truly lived, you could be like me.” He moved to release her, easing back off her arms. It was enough.

She caught him by the hand that still held onto her neck, and then she set her power free. Ice lashed over his body, freezing him in place. He’d soon break free, but not until she was done. Power rippled along her skin as she fed it into his body, keeping him frozen. Only his eyes gave any indication that he heard every word she said. “Right now, you are very much like me in one fatal way.”