|
Buylinks above
Excerpt at the bottom below the reviews Book 1, Steamwork Chronicles Publisher: Cari Silverwood Released: August 2011 by Loose Id August 2015 by Cari Silverwood Genre: Heterosexual M/f BDSM Steampunk Cover Art: Cari Silverwood Raised from childhood as an assassin, Claire finds her world knocked off kilter when Theo Kevonis, a rich, ex-Air Corp nobleman, rescues her from an airship crash. Being a soldier of a hostile nation she cannot reveal her identity. Theo sinks his steely Dom fingers into her heart and soul, showing her the pleasures to be found in surrendering to his touch. Captivated, Claire binds herself in lie after lie rather than risk losing the one man who’s ever loved her. When her loathsome commander returns from the dead, her deceit is uncovered. Despairing and in anguish, Claire must find a way to win back Theo's trust and destroy the man who threatens them both. |
|
I COULD NOT PUT THIS BOOK DOWN! This book is a page turner that will sweep you into its story from the very first pages.
Ms. Silverwood does a wonderful job ratcheting up the tension in this very unique love story, because despite all the trappings at the heart of Iron Dominance is a love story... with a heavy BDSM element which works wonderfully within the plot. This is a stellar, steampunk tale in a world of war and espionage. Review link
Ms. Silverwood does a wonderful job ratcheting up the tension in this very unique love story, because despite all the trappings at the heart of Iron Dominance is a love story... with a heavy BDSM element which works wonderfully within the plot. This is a stellar, steampunk tale in a world of war and espionage. Review link
Chapter One
Beneath Claire’s feet, the timber floor vibrated in harmony with the airship’s engines. Opposite her, through the brass-lipped oblong porthole, at the end of a long pylon, the port engine shone with reflected light against the backdrop of night sky. She stayed at parade rest, both hands behind her back, pretending to be unconcerned with how little of her was covered by the skimpy evening dress.
The Common Room door was latched back. Whenever crew passed by, they tended to slow and give her an appraising look before continuing on. Even so, she’d rather the door be open—for apart from the four square tables and their chairs, she was alone with Lieutenant Inkline.
As if he exuded frost, whenever Claire was near the lieutenant, her fingers and lips grew cold. With his arm propped on the table, Inkline leaned over studying the papers fanned out before him. He’d not spoken for ages. His name badge falsely declared him an officer of the PME Diplomatic Corps.
Inkline—a diplomat. What a laughable cover identity. Except no one, especially she, would ever dare to laugh.
“Sir,” she ventured, “permission to put on an overcoat before we land?”
Lieutenant Inkline looked up, one corner of his plump mouth twitching. He smoothed his palm down the leg of his immaculate uniform whites as if wiping off sweat, then across his bald scalp. Already, she regretted speaking. “You’re a frankenstruct. You don’t question me. You don’t speak without permission. And you certainly don’t feel.” He casually swung his hand and smacked her face.
The force jolted her sideways.
“See?”
She tasted blood, felt the sting from his fingers, but didn’t make a sound or do anything more than move her head until she once again stared over his shoulder. Tears wet her eyes. She blinked, ignoring them. Don’t feel. What an illogical statement. She could feel. She could, but no one cared, so yet again she curled her mind up in that dark cold place where others couldn’t see, and there she wept.
“Your instructions.” Inkline read from the folder in a monotone. “After arrival at Helspin Airport, you will be conveyed to a residence where later this evening, there will be a state reception. Meet your target. Get him alone, seduce him, then kill him by whatever method you can, preferably using the poison spike in your shoe to make his death appear natural.” He glanced up and asked drily, “You do know what seduction is?”
Confused as to whether she should reply, Claire stayed mute. From Inkline and the other trainers, she’d been taught enough to approach a target. The lessons, despite the subject matter, hadn’t been pleasant.
“Let me remind you.” He took a step forward and put his hand around the back of her head, pulling her to him. His lips bit down, crushing her lips onto her teeth, his tongue snaking into her mouth. She didn’t struggle even though his foul breath almost made her gag. That would only earn her a reprimand.
“Pah!” He released her and wiped his mouth. “Let’s hope you can do better than that tonight!” The glitter in his eyes told her the kiss had stirred him. The man had a cruel streak.
“Now, for the target’s name. Theodore—”
With a loud bang, the airship shuddered and slewed sideways. Through the porthole to her left, Claire saw the pylons of the engine twist like taffy. The engine broke away, propellers shrieking. Sparks of flaming metal and timber streamed backward into the night. Another bang. In a staggered line, three holes pocked the wall, spitting debris and shrapnel into the room. The lieutenant fell screaming, arm flung out sideways, a cloud of blood spraying from his shoulder. Knocked off balance, Claire grabbed at the back of a chair and barely stopped herself skidding across the floor. People yelled and cried in pain. An acrid, burned odor overlaid the sweet smell of blood and the perfume she wore.
Still clutching the chair even though the damn thing’s legs had little more hold on the carpet than her shoes, she prayed the ship had enough buoyancy to stay in the sky. Prayed whoever shot at them lost interest, real fast.
She kicked off her high heels and let her mind slide into a state of honed awareness, thanking God for her training. Sharp time, they’d called her ability, once they knew of it. Skin and muscle sizzled with tension. Time slowed. With a warbling whistle, three pieces of shrapnel tumbled toward her, scorching the air, leaving trails of gray smoke and a burning flutter of fragments. She threw herself sideways. A fist-sized chunk grazed her head.
Another, louder bang; then an exploding crump shook the whole airship. Her head filled with smoke and blackness…and silence.
* * *
Theo rocked up and down on his toes, reassessing, wondering if there was anything more that could be done. Smoke rose from the crash site, marking a tattered line across the pale blue morning sky. To his right, a flock of crows cawed from their perch in an enormous fig tree.
Thick roots at the base of the tree spread across the rock at the edge of the cliff. Below, deep at the bottom of the narrow ravine, ran the torturous Yang River. The airship crew were lucky they’d not crashed a few yards farther west. Bouncing off the cliff walls would have made survival impossible.
What a mess. He coughed and spat to clear his throat of the sludge from the smoke. His hands were gray from moving pieces of the airship, and he was sure his face was no better. He eyed the wreckage. Though it had come down in one piece apart from the nose, fire had destroyed the section that lay a few yards away.
“Found another survivor?” he yelled.
Dankyo stalked toward him, the holster of his Gerwelt pistol slapping against his crisp gray trousers, his flattop of shaven black hair cutting across the sky like a steam ship across the ocean. Trust Dankyo to find time to dress formal on an emergency mission in the wee early hours. Though Dankyo was originally a refugee from the Greater Asian Monarchy, Theo had never regretted making him head of his personal security.
From the position of the sun, it was past nine. Theo put a hand to his stomach, sorely missing breakfast. He tugged out his gold pocket watch. Close. Forty-two minutes after eight.
“No, sir. Still only five survivors.” Dankyo saluted. No matter that Theo had been out of the air fleet for two years, the man insisted on military manners.
“Cause of the crash?”
“Well.” Dankyo rubbed his chin. “We’re smack on the border here. A Pancontinental Mexican Empire airship with multiple blast holes and the front section blown away by maybe an electro rocket? We didn’t do it, that’s for certain.”
“The Brito-Gallic League.” Theo sighed. “Once the PME find out, we’ll have another flare-up of the war, and just when things were calming down.” The PME was touchy to say the least.
Dankyo shrugged his immense shoulders then asked, “Can I hope, sir, that you might reactivate?” Despite their long years together, in the air corps as well as outside it, Theo still found himself startled at times by the Englishness of Dankyo. It was as if a butler had morphed into a Sumo wrestler.
“No. You may not. I’m headed for politics as you well know, man. The horrors of war can be another’s worry from now on.”
Horrors of war indeed. Too many men had lost their lives in the name of war. Lunacy. When he’d seen betrayal of fellow countrymen become the norm, he knew there were better ways to spend his life.
A uniformed arm waved from the smoking mound of black and twisted metal. One of his house guards had found something. Above the man’s head, emblazoned across a slope of undamaged metal, was a yard-high white and orange eagle—all that remained of the PME flag.
“Hoy! Sirs!” the guard yelled. “Another one! A woman!”
“Come, Dankyo.” Theo set off jogging across the disheveled landscape, hopping here and there to clear small piles of debris. A lone crow took off, flapping and cawing, as he approached the man who’d waved.
At his feet lay a slender woman, blonde hair still partly pinned into a chignon, the diamantes on her wine red evening gown dulled by smears of dirt. One strap had slipped from the shoulder, revealing the upper curve of her breast. Near the jagged hem of the dress, three deep yet neat cuts had bled and left red trails along the outer curve of her thigh.
The unexpected sight of womanly flesh among all this blatant destruction was as jarring as a rose floating in a swamp.
He slipped off his leather jacket and squatted to cover her. Her eyes snapped open—polished amber irises full of pain and confusion. From the rubble by her side, her arm swung weakly up; a broken metal strut tumbled from her hand.
“Uh-uh.” He easily intercepted her wrist. Those big golden eyes slowly closed. A spirited one. Her arm flopped back above her head, jolting her breasts.
She’s barely conscious. Having me looming over her must have frightened her. Casually his gaze traveled up to her shoulder, around the curves of muscle, up to her wrist…and he imagined her with both arms tied that way.
He shook his head. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Coming.” Dr. Eastway crunched across to them, his boots slipping on the loose earth. The last few strands of gray hair straggled across his forehead, and his black medical case swung from his hand.
Though the doctor was bleary-eyed, Theo knew him to be competent and backed away to let him through.
“Ah. Hmm. She’s breathing easily, sir. Pulse strong. Color good. Upper leg lacerations plus looks like a blow to the head from the abrasions on her temple. I need to get her back to the house, sir. Ah.” Dismay tinged the doctor’s last word. He peered at and probed the skin of the woman’s neck and shoulders, then rose slowly.
“What is it, Doctor?”
But the man merely flapped his hand at Theo while shaking his head. “A moment, please.” The brusque tone was normal. An early career tending soldiers hadn’t encouraged a good bedside manner.
Having given instructions for the loading of the woman onto a stretcher, Dr. Eastway took Theo by the arm and led him to one side. “Ahem. Colonel, there’s something I should tell you about that young woman.”
“Yes? Is she going to be all right?”
“Perhaps. Most likely. Though spending the night out here has not helped any of them. I expect she will regain consciousness soon. But that is not my main concern, sir.”
“The recovery of your patient is not your main concern? Doctor, I’m more than a little confused here. Explain yourself.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “She is not a normal human. She’s a frankenstruct. A being made of cloned parts. To those who are privy to such knowledge, there are marks that reveal this. The PME are far advanced in cloning and genetics. Do you still want me to tend to her?”
“What?” Anger stirred in Theo.
“Ah.” The doctor bowed his head. Clearly he’d realized his error. “Of course, some are quite happy to allow them a degree of humanity. And such opinions are not mine to judge. However, there is, sir”—the doctor coughed—“the question of the fine for aiding or harboring a frankenstruct. I believe it is ten thousand drachma.”
Theo pressed his lips together. A trivial sum to him, but to the doctor it would mean far more. “I’ll settle any such fines if they occur. But first someone would need to report that we have committed such a…transgression. None of my men here would do so.”
The doctor blinked rapidly. “Thank you, sir. My lips are sealed, as you know, sir. I too am indebted to you for employment. I shall attend to her injuries.”
“Do so.”
From her dress this woman must be some sort of companion. Perhaps a sexual one? That the PME used frankenstructs as slaves was common knowledge, but to see one… Theo shook his head, bemused. She’d seemed so normal, so female, so very fragile. He’d wanted to stroke that porcelain-fine skin yet also to pick her up like some lost puppy and shelter her from harm. He smiled wanly.
The doctor was correct, though. Frankenstructs were illegal and to be destroyed on sight. He couldn’t do that. He’d pay the fine if he had to. Money wasn’t everything.
* * *
Consciousness melted into being like clouds blown away by a cold and malevolent wind. Every jolt and swing of the stretcher Claire lay on vibrated fresh pain through her head and along her right leg. She gritted her teeth; almost everywhere hurt. Her first mission was off to an awful start.
Through the fringe of her lashes, she watched as two gray-uniformed men carried her stretcher into the grand foyer of an enormous dwelling. By letting her head loll to one side and then the other, she could see almost everything. As well as the stretcher bearers, two other men walked behind or at her side.
“I must advise sending her to the lockup cell, sir,” said one.
The second man replied. “With the men? Dankyo, even for you, I find that appalling. The guest bedroom will do nicely.”
Ah, she thought drowsily. This is the one in charge. The owner of this mansion, perhaps? She liked him more than the other, colder one.
At eye level, though she was the one moving, paintings seemed to bob past on parade, along with statues and fancy vases.
Though it felt as if someone had played drums on her body with a meat tenderizer, she marveled at everything. The men stopped and put her stretcher down with a small bounce at the foot of a wide curling staircase. A wave of nausea welled up her throat, then subsided.
“Are you certain of this, sir?” said Dankyo. The badge on his gray uniform announced him head of security. A house that needed a head of security—such ostentation spoke of wealth or paranoia or both. He looked…formidable.
Dankyo moved with grace despite his bulk. She narrowed her eyes further. To be discovered secretly observing him… She suppressed a shudder. He radiated danger.
“Yes, Dankyo,” spoke the other, whose name she’d yet to hear, except that all addressed him as sir. His deep voice possessed an alluring rightness, a surety that whatever he said would be obeyed. Even the simplest of his words compelled her to listen.
This man had told the doctor to minister to her at the crash site, despite knowing she was a frankenstruct. His words had been peculiar enough to stand out from the painful throb of the merry-go-round of colors and sound inside her head. That any human would bother to do this for her was incredible.
She crushed the hope that bubbled up. Stupid to think he might care. Always there were reasons. Nothing came without a price, though usually the reward came after the task was done and not before.
“The telegraph has come back, sir,” said Dankyo. “There’ll be an army escort meeting us at Hoskitt in two hours, then an airship to New Baskerton. The survivors will be deported back to Merica. There’s no point in putting her in the guest room. She can go with the men.”
“She’s not going, Dankyo. Be damned if I’m going to let the bureaucrats decide her future.” Anger lent a hard edge to the words. “You know as well as I, they’ll order her euthanized before they’ll let her be deported. It’s official policy. Take her up.”
The stretcher wobbled under her and was raised in the air, tilting.
Euthanized. She knew what that meant: death.
Once she was well, she’d escape. It was her duty to. Where to, though? A notion crystallized. Here I am, by myself. No Inkline. What if I go somewhere else and not back to the PME? Like a dog chasing its tail, the idea went around and around. What if?
The headache stopped her pinning that crazy notion down. Later, though. She needed to figure this out.
On the floor above they took her into a room bigger than the one her entire training squad had slept in. A four-poster bed of brushed silver and bronze dominated the floor next to a set of four timber doors. The bronze and green stained glass in the middle section of the doors matched the green drapes of the bed and the bronze poles holding up the bed’s canopy. Everywhere was opulence.
Claire forgot to pretend unconsciousness and opened her eyes wide.
“She’s awake, sir.” Dankyo’s brown eyes glittered. “This room is not secure. A child could abscond. As your security advisor, I insist on some means of ensuring this…frankenstruct is still here on the morn.”
His master sighed. “Your suggestion?”
“I’ll arrange something, sir.”
The men placed the stretcher on the bed then indicated she should roll off onto the bed. Gray-uniformed, with Security written on their shirt pockets, these must be Dankyo’s men.
“Come on, love,” the taller, heftier one muttered.
She winced as she shifted to raise herself on her elbows. Her red dress rode up, revealing three rows of black silk sutures on the outside of her right thigh. The room swam, turning the cream-striped wallpaper into a sea of milk.
“Here.” Two warm muscular arms slid under her. One at her shoulder, the other just below her bottom—scooping her up and moving her onto the emerald satin bedspread.
“Sir!” Dankyo said.
“Calm yourself, Dankyo.” The words were spoken from mere inches away. “She doesn’t bite. Do you?”
Clear iron gray eyes stared down at her, though when she met his gaze, they darkened. She stared back. A shiver ran through her.
He frowned as if seeing her for the first time, and she wished she’d been able to hold back that shiver. It made her feel…vulnerable.
As her eyes slowly closed a shadow passed above, and something gently brushed across her forehead. His fingers, she realized. The touch of his warm skin against hers felt good, and the place inside where she kept herself coiled and ready to fight relaxed, soothed by the rhythm of his fingers. Blackness rolled in. Her last thoughts chased her down into the abyss. Escape. Soon. Though for some reason she couldn’t remember why.
* * *
The next day, she was left alone in the room apart from a burly woman with a face like a wax gargoyle that had squatted too long in the sun. Dressed in a floral gown, her brown hair in a bun, gargoyle woman occupied a leather easy chair, every inch of it overflowing with her flesh. Whenever Claire needed to move from the bed, the woman would scowl and grumble, only to heave from the chair and trundle over with the handcuff keys in hand.
The handcuffs must’ve been Dankyo’s idea. One of her wrists was kept cuffed to the right hand pillar of the bed, and when she needed to go to the bathroom, the woman locked her wrists together. It made everything difficult, her arm cramping at times with it stretched over her head, and no one, gargoyle woman included, seemed to care that going to the bathroom was a laborious affair. She’d examined the cuffs. An ordinary pair she would stand a chance of picking, but these had some strange clockwork mechanism on each side. Still, a hairpin she found wedged at the back of the bathroom cabinet might be useful.
The little white dress they’d given her was already marked with blood. A bad color for concealment too. One mistake from them is all I need. Once my leg heals, I’m gone. But where to? Have I got the guts to desert? I can’t stay here.
She remembered something about the Brito-Gallic league—how they hated the PME. Perhaps she could pass as human there if she was careful with how she dressed, at least until she figured out if frankenstructs were legal.
Yes. To the west, then. She breathed out slowly. Settling on a goal had eased the tightness in her chest. To the west.
The late-afternoon sun streaked in through the glass doors, and Claire was halfway to the bathroom. The outer door banged open, and two guards trundled in a trolley bearing an engine of some sort with wires at one end, a crank at the other, and ridges of machined metal going halfway to the ceiling in layers like a steel wedding cake.
What the… Horrible images crammed into her head—sharpened steel, blood, pain—the paraphernalia of torture.
She stumbled. Her injured leg caved, and she went to one knee, with her cuffed hands on the floor just stopping her from completely toppling over. Fiery spikes screamed up her leg. She stifled a gasp of agony. The room hazed.
“Here now.” Quick solid steps approached her. Someone picked her up like a child and held her against their broad chest—the muscles and the scent of a man. Blinking to clear her vision, she let her gaze travel up to his face. The gray eyes she recognized.
“Good afternoon, agapi mou.”
That confused her even more. Had he just called her my love in Greek?
She screwed up her mouth. “I’m not your love. Put me down.”
A smile tweaked the corners of his lips. “So you can fall over again? I think not. Where do you wish to go?”
She reined in her instincts—striking at his eyes would get him to drop her…and then she’d likely be shot.
Squirming didn’t loosen his grip and only sent more pain spearing through her thigh. Fuming, she weighed her alternatives.
Very well. If he wants to carry me, that’s his problem.
“Finished thinking? That scowl does not become you.” He quirked an eyebrow.
This time she took a longer look—black wavy hair, a strong yet proportionate nose dividing his broad face, and black stubble on his chin. Her heartbeat accelerated.
“I was headed to the bathroom.”
With that he swung slowly around, took her to the bathroom, nudging open the door.
Alone in the bathroom, with the door closed behind her, Claire felt tremendously relieved, as if she’d barely escaped a trap. That a man had touched her without her permission grated on her nerves, though he’d not done anything. She’d be more careful in future. Try to keep out of his way.
Except when she opened the door, she found him waiting.
“I can get back to the bed myself.”
“Stubborn, aren’t you? No. I’ll carry you.”
And he scooped her up again. She couldn’t evade him, not with her leg injured and her wrists cuffed. The trolley with the strange machine awaited her at the bedside, as did an elderly man with thin gray hair. His neat suit and the stethoscope protruding from his jacket pocket marked him as a doctor. If this man carrying her hadn’t made her nervous already, the machine surely would have.
She said a mantra to get her pulse rate down. Why would they treat me as nicely as they have, only to torture me?
“Perhaps if we exchange names, you won’t feel so shy about being carried?”
Shy? She turned her gaze from the man holding her, to the machine, and back. What is this device?
“My name,” he said, maneuvering around the machine and lowering her to the bed, “is Theo Kevonis. I am the owner of this house and the adjoining lands. I was at the airship crash, and I helped rescue you. I must tell you how glad I am that we did that.” Very polite, but he hadn’t let go of her wrists. The grip was loose, as if he barely knew he held her, yet when she pulled away, his fingers tightened and kept her cuffed hands there.
Theo? The thought struck her like lightning. Theo was a shortened version of Theodore. Her target’s name. Inkline hadn’t given her the surname. Surely, it would be an impossible coincidence for this to be the same man. Besides, Inkline was dead, wasn’t he? Which meant her target didn’t matter, one way or the other. Professional curiosity crept in, though. Could this Theo be important enough for a nation to want him killed?
“Where is your other man? The mean-looking one?” She inched up the bed.
“Dankyo? My head of security? I sent him away to help with the crash investigation. I’m sure, if he was here, he would have told me you were too dangerous to approach. Not that I would have heeded his advice. I’ve been looking forward to your company.” He smiled down at her.
How did she reply to such talk? Dankyo would’ve been right, in a way. If she let loose in the way her ability and training allowed, she was dangerous. She said nothing—it seemed the safest choice.
“And this,” he said, turning to the other man, “is the esteemed Dr. Eastway. Your name, agapi mou?”
He mocked her again. She shot a murderous look his way and was startled to see him grin back, as if they shared a joke. She tugged again, unsuccessfully, to pull her hands from his. Instead of letting go, he moved his thumb in soft circles at her wrist.
The feeling was disconcerting, awakening a tingle in strange places.
“Claire.” She frowned, finding the pace of her breathing had quickened. “My name is Claire.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Claire.” Theo raised her hands and kissed the backs of her fingers.
Shock rendered her speechless. Her face heated. The casual application of mouth to skin unnerved her, almost more than a kiss on her lips. Inkline had accustomed her to that. She’d grown the equivalent of calluses in her mind.
“Dr. Eastway is going to use galvanic electricity to help heal your wounds. It’s safe, though not yet a widespread device. We’ve tried it on many battle wounds. Doctor?” Theo gave her hand a squeeze, then stepped aside to let the doctor take his place by the bed. He went to lean against the wall between the chest of drawers and the bathroom.
“In case you’re wondering,” Theo continued, “the other survivors have been sent onward. I can’t do the same with you because of our ridiculous law regarding frankenstructs. If I send you on, you’ll be euthanized.” He watched her carefully. “You understand? It’s too dangerous to send you on.”
She nodded. Does he think I’ll faint or something?
She eyed him, then decided the doctor warranted more attention. Galvanic energy…electricity? Voltaic electricity she understood—it ran lights, small engines, powered some weapons. While she pondered this, she couldn’t help, every so often, flicking a look at Theo.
He bothered her. Threatening? Maybe. But not, she sensed, in the way she normally classified threats. Though hard muscles glided beneath the cloth of his shirt, his strength didn’t concern her as much as his aura of control.
Another glance and this time, she found him intent on looking at her. She fought down a blush, made herself look back at him for several seconds, before returning to the doctor. A mistake, there, perhaps, as left unchallenged, Theo’s regard seemed to sear the surface of her neck and face.
This, her training had not prepared her for—she was meant to obey commands, to kill as efficiently as possible, and not face down men who simply stared. She found herself having to fight off an urge to ask him what he wanted of her. Even knowing he was on the wrong side didn’t dispel this urge, though it made her more determined than ever to resist her impulse.
Although, really, which exactly was the wrong side? She’d never been asked which side she wanted to be on. In an offhand way, she’d been bred in a vat and created, like a vehicle made from spare parts—or as the other frankenstructs laughingly called the process, brewed and glued.
The doctor busied himself checking dials on the machine and setting switches. This man, doctor or not, bore a resemblance to Inkline—balding, cold in attitude. He made her want to sneak to the opposite side of the bed. Slowly, she forced herself to relax.
“Let’s see your leg.” Dr. Eastway grabbed the bottom of her dress and flipped it up, exposing the sutures on her thigh and the lower edge of her panties.
Damn him! She hissed and stiffened. Like all humans, he thought she was a thing. She sat up and grabbed his hand, bent back a finger to immobilize him. Almost…almost tempted into sharp time, so she could fracture that hand, and only stopping herself in the last second.
No. Mustn’t. That would be disastrous, to show them what she could do. “Take your hand off me!”
The Common Room door was latched back. Whenever crew passed by, they tended to slow and give her an appraising look before continuing on. Even so, she’d rather the door be open—for apart from the four square tables and their chairs, she was alone with Lieutenant Inkline.
As if he exuded frost, whenever Claire was near the lieutenant, her fingers and lips grew cold. With his arm propped on the table, Inkline leaned over studying the papers fanned out before him. He’d not spoken for ages. His name badge falsely declared him an officer of the PME Diplomatic Corps.
Inkline—a diplomat. What a laughable cover identity. Except no one, especially she, would ever dare to laugh.
“Sir,” she ventured, “permission to put on an overcoat before we land?”
Lieutenant Inkline looked up, one corner of his plump mouth twitching. He smoothed his palm down the leg of his immaculate uniform whites as if wiping off sweat, then across his bald scalp. Already, she regretted speaking. “You’re a frankenstruct. You don’t question me. You don’t speak without permission. And you certainly don’t feel.” He casually swung his hand and smacked her face.
The force jolted her sideways.
“See?”
She tasted blood, felt the sting from his fingers, but didn’t make a sound or do anything more than move her head until she once again stared over his shoulder. Tears wet her eyes. She blinked, ignoring them. Don’t feel. What an illogical statement. She could feel. She could, but no one cared, so yet again she curled her mind up in that dark cold place where others couldn’t see, and there she wept.
“Your instructions.” Inkline read from the folder in a monotone. “After arrival at Helspin Airport, you will be conveyed to a residence where later this evening, there will be a state reception. Meet your target. Get him alone, seduce him, then kill him by whatever method you can, preferably using the poison spike in your shoe to make his death appear natural.” He glanced up and asked drily, “You do know what seduction is?”
Confused as to whether she should reply, Claire stayed mute. From Inkline and the other trainers, she’d been taught enough to approach a target. The lessons, despite the subject matter, hadn’t been pleasant.
“Let me remind you.” He took a step forward and put his hand around the back of her head, pulling her to him. His lips bit down, crushing her lips onto her teeth, his tongue snaking into her mouth. She didn’t struggle even though his foul breath almost made her gag. That would only earn her a reprimand.
“Pah!” He released her and wiped his mouth. “Let’s hope you can do better than that tonight!” The glitter in his eyes told her the kiss had stirred him. The man had a cruel streak.
“Now, for the target’s name. Theodore—”
With a loud bang, the airship shuddered and slewed sideways. Through the porthole to her left, Claire saw the pylons of the engine twist like taffy. The engine broke away, propellers shrieking. Sparks of flaming metal and timber streamed backward into the night. Another bang. In a staggered line, three holes pocked the wall, spitting debris and shrapnel into the room. The lieutenant fell screaming, arm flung out sideways, a cloud of blood spraying from his shoulder. Knocked off balance, Claire grabbed at the back of a chair and barely stopped herself skidding across the floor. People yelled and cried in pain. An acrid, burned odor overlaid the sweet smell of blood and the perfume she wore.
Still clutching the chair even though the damn thing’s legs had little more hold on the carpet than her shoes, she prayed the ship had enough buoyancy to stay in the sky. Prayed whoever shot at them lost interest, real fast.
She kicked off her high heels and let her mind slide into a state of honed awareness, thanking God for her training. Sharp time, they’d called her ability, once they knew of it. Skin and muscle sizzled with tension. Time slowed. With a warbling whistle, three pieces of shrapnel tumbled toward her, scorching the air, leaving trails of gray smoke and a burning flutter of fragments. She threw herself sideways. A fist-sized chunk grazed her head.
Another, louder bang; then an exploding crump shook the whole airship. Her head filled with smoke and blackness…and silence.
* * *
Theo rocked up and down on his toes, reassessing, wondering if there was anything more that could be done. Smoke rose from the crash site, marking a tattered line across the pale blue morning sky. To his right, a flock of crows cawed from their perch in an enormous fig tree.
Thick roots at the base of the tree spread across the rock at the edge of the cliff. Below, deep at the bottom of the narrow ravine, ran the torturous Yang River. The airship crew were lucky they’d not crashed a few yards farther west. Bouncing off the cliff walls would have made survival impossible.
What a mess. He coughed and spat to clear his throat of the sludge from the smoke. His hands were gray from moving pieces of the airship, and he was sure his face was no better. He eyed the wreckage. Though it had come down in one piece apart from the nose, fire had destroyed the section that lay a few yards away.
“Found another survivor?” he yelled.
Dankyo stalked toward him, the holster of his Gerwelt pistol slapping against his crisp gray trousers, his flattop of shaven black hair cutting across the sky like a steam ship across the ocean. Trust Dankyo to find time to dress formal on an emergency mission in the wee early hours. Though Dankyo was originally a refugee from the Greater Asian Monarchy, Theo had never regretted making him head of his personal security.
From the position of the sun, it was past nine. Theo put a hand to his stomach, sorely missing breakfast. He tugged out his gold pocket watch. Close. Forty-two minutes after eight.
“No, sir. Still only five survivors.” Dankyo saluted. No matter that Theo had been out of the air fleet for two years, the man insisted on military manners.
“Cause of the crash?”
“Well.” Dankyo rubbed his chin. “We’re smack on the border here. A Pancontinental Mexican Empire airship with multiple blast holes and the front section blown away by maybe an electro rocket? We didn’t do it, that’s for certain.”
“The Brito-Gallic League.” Theo sighed. “Once the PME find out, we’ll have another flare-up of the war, and just when things were calming down.” The PME was touchy to say the least.
Dankyo shrugged his immense shoulders then asked, “Can I hope, sir, that you might reactivate?” Despite their long years together, in the air corps as well as outside it, Theo still found himself startled at times by the Englishness of Dankyo. It was as if a butler had morphed into a Sumo wrestler.
“No. You may not. I’m headed for politics as you well know, man. The horrors of war can be another’s worry from now on.”
Horrors of war indeed. Too many men had lost their lives in the name of war. Lunacy. When he’d seen betrayal of fellow countrymen become the norm, he knew there were better ways to spend his life.
A uniformed arm waved from the smoking mound of black and twisted metal. One of his house guards had found something. Above the man’s head, emblazoned across a slope of undamaged metal, was a yard-high white and orange eagle—all that remained of the PME flag.
“Hoy! Sirs!” the guard yelled. “Another one! A woman!”
“Come, Dankyo.” Theo set off jogging across the disheveled landscape, hopping here and there to clear small piles of debris. A lone crow took off, flapping and cawing, as he approached the man who’d waved.
At his feet lay a slender woman, blonde hair still partly pinned into a chignon, the diamantes on her wine red evening gown dulled by smears of dirt. One strap had slipped from the shoulder, revealing the upper curve of her breast. Near the jagged hem of the dress, three deep yet neat cuts had bled and left red trails along the outer curve of her thigh.
The unexpected sight of womanly flesh among all this blatant destruction was as jarring as a rose floating in a swamp.
He slipped off his leather jacket and squatted to cover her. Her eyes snapped open—polished amber irises full of pain and confusion. From the rubble by her side, her arm swung weakly up; a broken metal strut tumbled from her hand.
“Uh-uh.” He easily intercepted her wrist. Those big golden eyes slowly closed. A spirited one. Her arm flopped back above her head, jolting her breasts.
She’s barely conscious. Having me looming over her must have frightened her. Casually his gaze traveled up to her shoulder, around the curves of muscle, up to her wrist…and he imagined her with both arms tied that way.
He shook his head. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Coming.” Dr. Eastway crunched across to them, his boots slipping on the loose earth. The last few strands of gray hair straggled across his forehead, and his black medical case swung from his hand.
Though the doctor was bleary-eyed, Theo knew him to be competent and backed away to let him through.
“Ah. Hmm. She’s breathing easily, sir. Pulse strong. Color good. Upper leg lacerations plus looks like a blow to the head from the abrasions on her temple. I need to get her back to the house, sir. Ah.” Dismay tinged the doctor’s last word. He peered at and probed the skin of the woman’s neck and shoulders, then rose slowly.
“What is it, Doctor?”
But the man merely flapped his hand at Theo while shaking his head. “A moment, please.” The brusque tone was normal. An early career tending soldiers hadn’t encouraged a good bedside manner.
Having given instructions for the loading of the woman onto a stretcher, Dr. Eastway took Theo by the arm and led him to one side. “Ahem. Colonel, there’s something I should tell you about that young woman.”
“Yes? Is she going to be all right?”
“Perhaps. Most likely. Though spending the night out here has not helped any of them. I expect she will regain consciousness soon. But that is not my main concern, sir.”
“The recovery of your patient is not your main concern? Doctor, I’m more than a little confused here. Explain yourself.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “She is not a normal human. She’s a frankenstruct. A being made of cloned parts. To those who are privy to such knowledge, there are marks that reveal this. The PME are far advanced in cloning and genetics. Do you still want me to tend to her?”
“What?” Anger stirred in Theo.
“Ah.” The doctor bowed his head. Clearly he’d realized his error. “Of course, some are quite happy to allow them a degree of humanity. And such opinions are not mine to judge. However, there is, sir”—the doctor coughed—“the question of the fine for aiding or harboring a frankenstruct. I believe it is ten thousand drachma.”
Theo pressed his lips together. A trivial sum to him, but to the doctor it would mean far more. “I’ll settle any such fines if they occur. But first someone would need to report that we have committed such a…transgression. None of my men here would do so.”
The doctor blinked rapidly. “Thank you, sir. My lips are sealed, as you know, sir. I too am indebted to you for employment. I shall attend to her injuries.”
“Do so.”
From her dress this woman must be some sort of companion. Perhaps a sexual one? That the PME used frankenstructs as slaves was common knowledge, but to see one… Theo shook his head, bemused. She’d seemed so normal, so female, so very fragile. He’d wanted to stroke that porcelain-fine skin yet also to pick her up like some lost puppy and shelter her from harm. He smiled wanly.
The doctor was correct, though. Frankenstructs were illegal and to be destroyed on sight. He couldn’t do that. He’d pay the fine if he had to. Money wasn’t everything.
* * *
Consciousness melted into being like clouds blown away by a cold and malevolent wind. Every jolt and swing of the stretcher Claire lay on vibrated fresh pain through her head and along her right leg. She gritted her teeth; almost everywhere hurt. Her first mission was off to an awful start.
Through the fringe of her lashes, she watched as two gray-uniformed men carried her stretcher into the grand foyer of an enormous dwelling. By letting her head loll to one side and then the other, she could see almost everything. As well as the stretcher bearers, two other men walked behind or at her side.
“I must advise sending her to the lockup cell, sir,” said one.
The second man replied. “With the men? Dankyo, even for you, I find that appalling. The guest bedroom will do nicely.”
Ah, she thought drowsily. This is the one in charge. The owner of this mansion, perhaps? She liked him more than the other, colder one.
At eye level, though she was the one moving, paintings seemed to bob past on parade, along with statues and fancy vases.
Though it felt as if someone had played drums on her body with a meat tenderizer, she marveled at everything. The men stopped and put her stretcher down with a small bounce at the foot of a wide curling staircase. A wave of nausea welled up her throat, then subsided.
“Are you certain of this, sir?” said Dankyo. The badge on his gray uniform announced him head of security. A house that needed a head of security—such ostentation spoke of wealth or paranoia or both. He looked…formidable.
Dankyo moved with grace despite his bulk. She narrowed her eyes further. To be discovered secretly observing him… She suppressed a shudder. He radiated danger.
“Yes, Dankyo,” spoke the other, whose name she’d yet to hear, except that all addressed him as sir. His deep voice possessed an alluring rightness, a surety that whatever he said would be obeyed. Even the simplest of his words compelled her to listen.
This man had told the doctor to minister to her at the crash site, despite knowing she was a frankenstruct. His words had been peculiar enough to stand out from the painful throb of the merry-go-round of colors and sound inside her head. That any human would bother to do this for her was incredible.
She crushed the hope that bubbled up. Stupid to think he might care. Always there were reasons. Nothing came without a price, though usually the reward came after the task was done and not before.
“The telegraph has come back, sir,” said Dankyo. “There’ll be an army escort meeting us at Hoskitt in two hours, then an airship to New Baskerton. The survivors will be deported back to Merica. There’s no point in putting her in the guest room. She can go with the men.”
“She’s not going, Dankyo. Be damned if I’m going to let the bureaucrats decide her future.” Anger lent a hard edge to the words. “You know as well as I, they’ll order her euthanized before they’ll let her be deported. It’s official policy. Take her up.”
The stretcher wobbled under her and was raised in the air, tilting.
Euthanized. She knew what that meant: death.
Once she was well, she’d escape. It was her duty to. Where to, though? A notion crystallized. Here I am, by myself. No Inkline. What if I go somewhere else and not back to the PME? Like a dog chasing its tail, the idea went around and around. What if?
The headache stopped her pinning that crazy notion down. Later, though. She needed to figure this out.
On the floor above they took her into a room bigger than the one her entire training squad had slept in. A four-poster bed of brushed silver and bronze dominated the floor next to a set of four timber doors. The bronze and green stained glass in the middle section of the doors matched the green drapes of the bed and the bronze poles holding up the bed’s canopy. Everywhere was opulence.
Claire forgot to pretend unconsciousness and opened her eyes wide.
“She’s awake, sir.” Dankyo’s brown eyes glittered. “This room is not secure. A child could abscond. As your security advisor, I insist on some means of ensuring this…frankenstruct is still here on the morn.”
His master sighed. “Your suggestion?”
“I’ll arrange something, sir.”
The men placed the stretcher on the bed then indicated she should roll off onto the bed. Gray-uniformed, with Security written on their shirt pockets, these must be Dankyo’s men.
“Come on, love,” the taller, heftier one muttered.
She winced as she shifted to raise herself on her elbows. Her red dress rode up, revealing three rows of black silk sutures on the outside of her right thigh. The room swam, turning the cream-striped wallpaper into a sea of milk.
“Here.” Two warm muscular arms slid under her. One at her shoulder, the other just below her bottom—scooping her up and moving her onto the emerald satin bedspread.
“Sir!” Dankyo said.
“Calm yourself, Dankyo.” The words were spoken from mere inches away. “She doesn’t bite. Do you?”
Clear iron gray eyes stared down at her, though when she met his gaze, they darkened. She stared back. A shiver ran through her.
He frowned as if seeing her for the first time, and she wished she’d been able to hold back that shiver. It made her feel…vulnerable.
As her eyes slowly closed a shadow passed above, and something gently brushed across her forehead. His fingers, she realized. The touch of his warm skin against hers felt good, and the place inside where she kept herself coiled and ready to fight relaxed, soothed by the rhythm of his fingers. Blackness rolled in. Her last thoughts chased her down into the abyss. Escape. Soon. Though for some reason she couldn’t remember why.
* * *
The next day, she was left alone in the room apart from a burly woman with a face like a wax gargoyle that had squatted too long in the sun. Dressed in a floral gown, her brown hair in a bun, gargoyle woman occupied a leather easy chair, every inch of it overflowing with her flesh. Whenever Claire needed to move from the bed, the woman would scowl and grumble, only to heave from the chair and trundle over with the handcuff keys in hand.
The handcuffs must’ve been Dankyo’s idea. One of her wrists was kept cuffed to the right hand pillar of the bed, and when she needed to go to the bathroom, the woman locked her wrists together. It made everything difficult, her arm cramping at times with it stretched over her head, and no one, gargoyle woman included, seemed to care that going to the bathroom was a laborious affair. She’d examined the cuffs. An ordinary pair she would stand a chance of picking, but these had some strange clockwork mechanism on each side. Still, a hairpin she found wedged at the back of the bathroom cabinet might be useful.
The little white dress they’d given her was already marked with blood. A bad color for concealment too. One mistake from them is all I need. Once my leg heals, I’m gone. But where to? Have I got the guts to desert? I can’t stay here.
She remembered something about the Brito-Gallic league—how they hated the PME. Perhaps she could pass as human there if she was careful with how she dressed, at least until she figured out if frankenstructs were legal.
Yes. To the west, then. She breathed out slowly. Settling on a goal had eased the tightness in her chest. To the west.
The late-afternoon sun streaked in through the glass doors, and Claire was halfway to the bathroom. The outer door banged open, and two guards trundled in a trolley bearing an engine of some sort with wires at one end, a crank at the other, and ridges of machined metal going halfway to the ceiling in layers like a steel wedding cake.
What the… Horrible images crammed into her head—sharpened steel, blood, pain—the paraphernalia of torture.
She stumbled. Her injured leg caved, and she went to one knee, with her cuffed hands on the floor just stopping her from completely toppling over. Fiery spikes screamed up her leg. She stifled a gasp of agony. The room hazed.
“Here now.” Quick solid steps approached her. Someone picked her up like a child and held her against their broad chest—the muscles and the scent of a man. Blinking to clear her vision, she let her gaze travel up to his face. The gray eyes she recognized.
“Good afternoon, agapi mou.”
That confused her even more. Had he just called her my love in Greek?
She screwed up her mouth. “I’m not your love. Put me down.”
A smile tweaked the corners of his lips. “So you can fall over again? I think not. Where do you wish to go?”
She reined in her instincts—striking at his eyes would get him to drop her…and then she’d likely be shot.
Squirming didn’t loosen his grip and only sent more pain spearing through her thigh. Fuming, she weighed her alternatives.
Very well. If he wants to carry me, that’s his problem.
“Finished thinking? That scowl does not become you.” He quirked an eyebrow.
This time she took a longer look—black wavy hair, a strong yet proportionate nose dividing his broad face, and black stubble on his chin. Her heartbeat accelerated.
“I was headed to the bathroom.”
With that he swung slowly around, took her to the bathroom, nudging open the door.
Alone in the bathroom, with the door closed behind her, Claire felt tremendously relieved, as if she’d barely escaped a trap. That a man had touched her without her permission grated on her nerves, though he’d not done anything. She’d be more careful in future. Try to keep out of his way.
Except when she opened the door, she found him waiting.
“I can get back to the bed myself.”
“Stubborn, aren’t you? No. I’ll carry you.”
And he scooped her up again. She couldn’t evade him, not with her leg injured and her wrists cuffed. The trolley with the strange machine awaited her at the bedside, as did an elderly man with thin gray hair. His neat suit and the stethoscope protruding from his jacket pocket marked him as a doctor. If this man carrying her hadn’t made her nervous already, the machine surely would have.
She said a mantra to get her pulse rate down. Why would they treat me as nicely as they have, only to torture me?
“Perhaps if we exchange names, you won’t feel so shy about being carried?”
Shy? She turned her gaze from the man holding her, to the machine, and back. What is this device?
“My name,” he said, maneuvering around the machine and lowering her to the bed, “is Theo Kevonis. I am the owner of this house and the adjoining lands. I was at the airship crash, and I helped rescue you. I must tell you how glad I am that we did that.” Very polite, but he hadn’t let go of her wrists. The grip was loose, as if he barely knew he held her, yet when she pulled away, his fingers tightened and kept her cuffed hands there.
Theo? The thought struck her like lightning. Theo was a shortened version of Theodore. Her target’s name. Inkline hadn’t given her the surname. Surely, it would be an impossible coincidence for this to be the same man. Besides, Inkline was dead, wasn’t he? Which meant her target didn’t matter, one way or the other. Professional curiosity crept in, though. Could this Theo be important enough for a nation to want him killed?
“Where is your other man? The mean-looking one?” She inched up the bed.
“Dankyo? My head of security? I sent him away to help with the crash investigation. I’m sure, if he was here, he would have told me you were too dangerous to approach. Not that I would have heeded his advice. I’ve been looking forward to your company.” He smiled down at her.
How did she reply to such talk? Dankyo would’ve been right, in a way. If she let loose in the way her ability and training allowed, she was dangerous. She said nothing—it seemed the safest choice.
“And this,” he said, turning to the other man, “is the esteemed Dr. Eastway. Your name, agapi mou?”
He mocked her again. She shot a murderous look his way and was startled to see him grin back, as if they shared a joke. She tugged again, unsuccessfully, to pull her hands from his. Instead of letting go, he moved his thumb in soft circles at her wrist.
The feeling was disconcerting, awakening a tingle in strange places.
“Claire.” She frowned, finding the pace of her breathing had quickened. “My name is Claire.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Claire.” Theo raised her hands and kissed the backs of her fingers.
Shock rendered her speechless. Her face heated. The casual application of mouth to skin unnerved her, almost more than a kiss on her lips. Inkline had accustomed her to that. She’d grown the equivalent of calluses in her mind.
“Dr. Eastway is going to use galvanic electricity to help heal your wounds. It’s safe, though not yet a widespread device. We’ve tried it on many battle wounds. Doctor?” Theo gave her hand a squeeze, then stepped aside to let the doctor take his place by the bed. He went to lean against the wall between the chest of drawers and the bathroom.
“In case you’re wondering,” Theo continued, “the other survivors have been sent onward. I can’t do the same with you because of our ridiculous law regarding frankenstructs. If I send you on, you’ll be euthanized.” He watched her carefully. “You understand? It’s too dangerous to send you on.”
She nodded. Does he think I’ll faint or something?
She eyed him, then decided the doctor warranted more attention. Galvanic energy…electricity? Voltaic electricity she understood—it ran lights, small engines, powered some weapons. While she pondered this, she couldn’t help, every so often, flicking a look at Theo.
He bothered her. Threatening? Maybe. But not, she sensed, in the way she normally classified threats. Though hard muscles glided beneath the cloth of his shirt, his strength didn’t concern her as much as his aura of control.
Another glance and this time, she found him intent on looking at her. She fought down a blush, made herself look back at him for several seconds, before returning to the doctor. A mistake, there, perhaps, as left unchallenged, Theo’s regard seemed to sear the surface of her neck and face.
This, her training had not prepared her for—she was meant to obey commands, to kill as efficiently as possible, and not face down men who simply stared. She found herself having to fight off an urge to ask him what he wanted of her. Even knowing he was on the wrong side didn’t dispel this urge, though it made her more determined than ever to resist her impulse.
Although, really, which exactly was the wrong side? She’d never been asked which side she wanted to be on. In an offhand way, she’d been bred in a vat and created, like a vehicle made from spare parts—or as the other frankenstructs laughingly called the process, brewed and glued.
The doctor busied himself checking dials on the machine and setting switches. This man, doctor or not, bore a resemblance to Inkline—balding, cold in attitude. He made her want to sneak to the opposite side of the bed. Slowly, she forced herself to relax.
“Let’s see your leg.” Dr. Eastway grabbed the bottom of her dress and flipped it up, exposing the sutures on her thigh and the lower edge of her panties.
Damn him! She hissed and stiffened. Like all humans, he thought she was a thing. She sat up and grabbed his hand, bent back a finger to immobilize him. Almost…almost tempted into sharp time, so she could fracture that hand, and only stopping herself in the last second.
No. Mustn’t. That would be disastrous, to show them what she could do. “Take your hand off me!”
Copyright Cari Silverwood 2011. All rights reserved. No part of these publications may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.