Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (2 page)

He affected a sigh, then kicked a chair toward her. “As you like. But if you change your mind …” His grin was all scoundrel. “All the stories you’ve heard about Man O’ Wars are true.”

As she took her seat, she could only speculate about the content of those stories. She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t heard them.

One thing she now knew for certain: Denisov was not wearing a shirt beneath his coat, only a buckled waistcoat. The deep V-neck of the waistcoat revealed precisely delineated pectoral muscles, sprinkled with dark hair. As Denisov shifted slightly, light from the flickering gas lamp gleamed on a metallic surface on his chest. His telumium implants.

“Go ahead and look.” His wry voice punctured her thoughts. Pulling aside the edge of his waistcoat, he revealed more of the implants.

She was a scholar, so she felt no compunction about studying them. Somehow, the metal had been grafted to his skin, covering his left pectoral. It looked as though it continued up onto his shoulder, as well. The telumium had been shaped so that it appeared part of his body, taking on the form of his muscles. Having done some research on Man O’ Wars, she knew that there were telumium filaments leading from the implants to his heart, which created the process by which he powered an airship. Yet she was an anthropologist, not an engineer, and the whys and wherefores of the process remained arcane.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He frowned, as though the question caught him by surprise, and tugged his waistcoat back into place. “Not anymore.”

She flattened her disappointment that she couldn’t study his implants further. All that truly mattered was that Denisov had an airship, not how he could power it.

“Mister Denisov—”

“
Captain
Denisov.”

“Captain,” she began again. “Are you familiar with the current situation in the Arabian Peninsula?”

“As familiar as I need to be.” He took a deep drink from his cup, and she tried not to watch the tendons in his neck as he swallowed. “Telumium was discovered there a few months ago.”

“A very rich source,” she confirmed. “Which means that the war has spread as nations vie for the telumium deposit. The allied English and Italians want it, and the Hapsburg-Russian alliance wants it. The entire region has destabilized as a result. Any remnants of the fragile peace between local tribes has been utterly shattered.”

One of the men sitting with Denisov snorted derisively. “So?”

She glared at him. “
So
—my parents are archaeologists in the Arabian Peninsula. They were working on a dig when the telumium was discovered and everything went to hell.” Turning her gaze to Denisov, she said, “My parents have been kidnapped. A warlord by the name of Haroun ibn Jalal al-Rahim has imprisoned them.”

Denisov whistled lowly. “Heard of al-Rahim. A ruthless bastard, that one.”

A cold spike of fear jammed into her chest, but she forced herself to ignore it. Nothing could be gained by panicking. The only way she could see this through was to remain calm and in control at all times.

“He took my parents and the local people working with them on the dig,” she continued, “despite the fact that they were intruding on no one’s territory.”

“How’d you find out about this?”

“Al-Rahim sent a package to me in Florence.” She swallowed hard, remembering the terror that chilled her as she’d unwrapped the paper and read the accompanying letter. “It contained my mother’s wedding band and my father’s prized knife. My mother gave it to him as an anniversary gift. They’d never willingly part with either of those things. So I knew al-Rahim’s claims were true. I went straight to the British Embassy in Rome, asking for help.”

“And they were no help at all,” Denisov said.

Her hands curled into fists with remembered anger. “
The political situation is too tenuous
. That’s what they told me.
It could cause further imbalance in the region
.”

“Meaning,” Denisov said with a smirk, “they were looking after their own arses.”

“The bloody telumium, too.” She didn’t care if her language was becoming coarse. The more she thought about how the British government,
her
government and the government of her parents, put its own financial and political interests ahead of the well-being of its citizens, the more infuriated she became.

Telumium was extremely rare, and an essential component in the creation of Man O’ Wars. Having Man O’ Wars meant a nation could have airships, which expanded their political and economic reach. Europe had been torn apart as countries allied with and vied against one another in the ongoing search for telumium. To Daphne, it seemed a ridiculous cycle. Going to war in order to give a country the resources to perpetuate war.

She never cared for politics. Her only interest was anthropology, studying the cultures of the world before they vanished beneath the grinding wheels of modernity. Yet now she cared about politics. Deeply.

“There’s nothing for it,” she said, her words hardening. “I have to try to free my parents on my own.”

As she spoke, Denisov straightened, and his wry expression grew more serious. Though he was sitting, she still felt herself intimidated by his size. Motorized bicycle races could be held on his shoulders.

She pressed on. “The only way for me to reach my parents is via airship.
Your
airship.”

The glint in his eyes vanished. “No.”

“But—”

“The answer is no.” Abruptly, he stood.

Oh, Lord, he was so … big. She had to tip her head back to look up at him, looming like an omen. An ether pistol was strapped to his thigh. She thought of the revolver in her handbag, and how tiny it seemed in comparison. Did ordinary bullets affect Man O’ Wars? She wished she’d researched that topic more thoroughly before coming here tonight.

The men sitting beside Denisov scrambled out of the way as he stalked from the table. Leaving Daphne alone.

Was that it? One word from the Man O’ War and her mission was over before it had truly begun?

She jumped to her feet and hurried after him. Given that he cleared a path through the tavern—people scuttling out of his way—she followed in his wake. Before he could reach the door, she jumped in front of him. Thank goodness he stopped walking, or else he would have rolled right over her like a tetrol-powered plow. Thank goodness, too, that she was desperate, or else the glower he gave her might have sent her scurrying for cover behind the bar.

“Captain Denisov, please—”

“Smuggling contraband Chinese automatons into the Kingdom of Brazil,” he growled. “
Liberating
treasure from lead-lined vaults on behalf of wealthy clients. Those are the sorts of jobs I take on. Not some miniscule errand.”

“There is nothing
miniscule
about saving my parents’ lives,” she shot back.

He crossed his arms over his chest, the substantial muscles of his biceps knotting. “Profit motivates me,
zaika
. Nothing else.”

“You’d be compensated for your efforts.”

“Not enough to make it worth my while. Since I’ve gone rogue, I stay well away from political pandemonium like the one in Arabia.”

“As a rogue, doesn’t that mean you aren’t affiliated with any government? You have freedom to go where others cannot.”

“The Russian Imperial Aerial Navy considers me a traitor against the tsar,” he countered. “A thief, too, for stealing the
Bielyi Voron
. Any Russian Man O’ War who finds and captures me is assured glory. They’ll certainly be in Arabia, which means I won’t be going there.”

He set one massive hand on her shoulder. Though she wore a thick twill jacket, a cotton blouse, and chemise, his touch burned right through all her garments, as if he placed his hand upon her bare skin. Her heartbeat stuttered.

His brows lowered, as though this simple touch affected him just as strongly. With his hand still on her shoulder, he guided her out of his path, like a lion nudging aside a cub. He took his hand away, yet she noticed how he rubbed his fingers together afterward—either remembering or erasing the feel of her.

“Find someone else to help you,” he said.

She blurted, “Come with me back to my
pensione
.”

That teasing smile was back in place. “Changed your mind about the fun,
zaika
? Man O’ Wars have a great deal of stamina.”

“Just … come with me.” She turned and hurried outside before her cheeks went up in flames. The salty night air did little to calm her or cool her face, but she took several deep breaths, steadying herself. A moment passed as she stood alone in the street. Then she heard Denisov’s heavy steps on the pavement behind her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

She walked toward her
pensione,
passing sailors and peddlers and men in front of tatty velvet curtains, hawking the latest in mechanized pleasure. She ignored the catcalls and exhortations thrown her way, her mind focused only on Denisov as he followed her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed him moving through the gaslight and shadows, trailing after her with deliberate intent. He kept a distance between them, as though purposefully preserving the illusion that she led the chase. If he had wanted to, he could have caught up with her in a few strides. But the space between them only heightened the sense that he toyed with her.

The
pensione
was a tottering three-story building, paint and plaster chipping from its façade. There were finer places to stay in Palermo along the more genteel stretch of waterfront, grand hotels with jeweled mechanical peacocks strutting through their vast gardens, but she hadn’t the funds for them. Briefly, she wondered if she ought to have taken a room there, to better indicate to Denisov that she had more than enough money. Too late now.

She took her key from the smirking
signora
at the desk. The woman’s smirk faltered when she caught sight of Denisov striding through the doorway. Daphne felt the heat of him as he stood behind her. The
signora
glanced back and forth between Daphne and the Man O’ War, and new respect gleamed in her eyes.

Daphne ignored the rattling, steam-powered elevator—it would be impossible to squeeze both herself and Denisov into that narrow metal box—and climbed the three flights of stairs to her room. As she unlocked her door, she caught the unmistakable sounds of a couple enjoying themselves in the room across the hall.

Denisov’s chuckle rippled over her as she fumbled with her key. The door finally swung open. She stepped inside and switched on the gaslights.

He shut the door behind them. They were alone together.

Turning to face him, her heart beat faster than it had from the three-story climb. Her room was far from lavish, just big enough to contain a rickety table, a lamp, a dresser with a mirror hanging over it, and a bed. Denisov filled the chamber, not merely with his size, but his presence. With his hair, his coat, his very essence, he seemed a creature from the depths of dreams.

“I’m glad you changed your mind,
lapochka
.” His smile was unalloyed wickedness as he stepped closer. He ran one finger along the side of her neck, sending electrical sparks through her. “I admit, you’re not my usual sort, but then, I doubt I’m your typical choice.”

“That’s not … why I brought you here.” A curious reluctance tore at her as she pulled away. She hurried around the side of the bed, then knelt on the dusty floor. Reaching beneath the bed, she felt for a handle. Her fingers closed around it, and she tugged. Hard.

She dragged the strongbox out from beneath the bed. Muscles straining with the effort, she hefted the metal box and set it down upon the coverlet. The container itself wasn’t particularly large—the size of the tea caddy her mother used to take on digs so that she could enjoy her favorite beverage even in the field. But what this strongbox contained was far more valuable than Darjeeling tea.

Denisov watched her, his expression only mildly interested.

She entered a combination into the strongbox’s keypad, her fingers flying over the enameled numeric buttons. There was a hiss as the brass locking system unbolted. She lifted the lid.

“Blyat,”
Denisov cursed.

A row of four gold ingots lay like gleaming soldiers within the strongbox. A modest fortune.

“This is half the payment,” Daphne said. “You’ll receive the other half after I’m taken to Arabia and my parents are freed.”

He picked up one of the gold bars. Tested its weight in his hand, even giving the ingot a little toss into the air before catching it. Still, he wasn’t satisfied, not until he scraped the gold bar across the surface of the mirror. It left no scratch upon the glass.

Turning back to her, he asked, “Where did you get this gold?”

“Does it matter?”

He thought about it for a moment. “No.”

“As I said, all that is yours, if you’ll agree to fly me to Arabia. To the city of Medinat al-Kadib, specifically. That’s where I’m supposed to meet al-Rahim’s emissary.”

Setting the ingot down beside the others, he said in a deceptively light voice, “A big chance you’ve taken,
zaika
—”

“Daphne Carlisle,” she cut in. “Of the
Accademia delle Arti e della Cultura
in Florence.”

“Ah, a
professorsha
.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Learned lady, what’s to stop me from just taking this gold now?”

She eyed him, from the tip of his outrageous hair to the toes of his boots. “Nothing. Save the promise of more, if you fulfill your end of the bargain.”

“Clever, Miss Carlisle, to use my greed against me.” Yet he smiled as he said this.

“So,” she pressed, “will you do it?”

She didn’t know what she’d do if he said no. Tracking him down had been a Herculean effort, and if, by some miracle, she was able to find another rogue Man O’ War willing to take on the task, it would likely be too late. She doubted al-Rahim would keep her parents alive indefinitely.

He glanced down at the strongbox, then up at the ceiling. Her heartbeat, her breath—everything stopped as she waited for him to make his decision.