Demon Marked (48 page)

“Yes, of course.”

Zenobia led the way into a parlor, her too-long skirts dragging on the wooden floor. A writing desk sat by the window, stacked with papers. No ink stained Zenobia's fingers. Obviously, she hadn't been busy writing the next Archimedes Fox adventure.

A shelf over the fireplace held several baubles, some worn by age, others encrusted with dirt—a silver snuffbox, a lady's miniature portrait, a gold tooth. All items that Archimedes had collected during his salvaging runs in Europe, Yasmeen realized. All items that he'd picked from the ruins, but hadn't sold. Why keep these?

Her gaze returned to the lady in the miniature. Soft brown hair, warm eyes, a plain dress. The description seemed familiar, though Yasmeen knew she hadn't seen this portrait before. No, it was a description from
Archimedes Fox and the Specter of Notre Dame
. In the story, Archimedes Fox had found a similar miniature clutched in a skeleton's fingers, and the mystery surrounding the woman's identity had led the adventurer to a treasure hidden beneath the ruined cathedral.

How odd that she'd never realized that fictional miniature had a real-life counterpart. That she'd never imagined him digging it out of the muck somewhere and bringing it to his sister. That he'd once held it, as she did now.

The stupid man. She hoped he wasn't dead.

Yasmeen lied often, and so she didn't care that he'd lied about his identity when he'd arranged for passage on her airship. Had she not discovered who he was, she'd have invited him to her bed—and he'd have come, would have submitted to her demands, because he'd wanted her.

But she could never offer an invitation after he'd made a fool of her in front of her crew.

It didn't matter that he'd lied. It
did
matter that she'd allowed Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste's son aboard her airship without knowing who he really was. It didn't matter that his son hadn't been seeking revenge.

But Archimedes
could
have been seeking revenge, and her crew knew it. A threat had sneaked onto
Lady Corsair
right beneath her nose.

She couldn't forgive him for that. Too often, she led her crew into dangerous territory, and they would only be loyal to a strong captain. A captain they could trust. She'd invested years making certain that her crew could trust her, and rewarded their loyalty with scads of money.

There wasn't enough money in the world to convince a crew to follow a fool, and Archimedes Fox had come close to turning her into one. She'd only been saved because he'd openly thanked her for killing his father, negating his potential threat. He'd become a joke, instead.

And later, when he
had
threatened her in front of the crew, she'd gotten rid of him . . . maybe.

Yasmeen turned to Zenobia, who stood quietly in the center of the parlor, tears trailing over her pink cheeks.

“So Archimedes . . . is dead?” she whispered.

Funny how that terrible accent came and went. “Dead,” Yasmeen echoed. “Unfortunate, as I said. He was so very handsome.”

“Oh, my brother!” Zenobia buried her face in her hands.

Yasmeen let her sob for a minute. “Do you want to know how he died?”

Zenobia lifted her head. She took a second to compose herself, sniffling into a lace handkerchief, her blue eyes bright with more tears. “Well, yes, I suppose—”

“I killed him. I dropped him from my airship into a pack of flesh-eating zombies.”

The other woman had nothing to say to that. She stared at Yasmeen, her fingers twisting in the handkerchief.

“He tried to take control of my ship. You understand.” Yasmeen flopped onto a sofa and hooked her leg over the arm. Zenobia's face reddened and she averted her gaze. Not accustomed to seeing a woman in trousers, apparently. “He hasn't come around for a visit, has he?”

“A visit?” Her head came back around, eyes wide. “But—”

“I tossed him into a canal. Venice is still full of them, did you know?”

Zenobia shook her head.

“Well, some are more swamp than canal, but they are still there—and zombies don't go into the water. We both know that Archimedes has escaped more dire situations than that, at least according to his adventures. You've read your brother's stories, Miss Fox, haven't you?”

“Of . . . course.”

“He mentions the canals in
Archimedes Fox and the Mermaid of Venice.
”

“Oh, yes. I'd forgotten.”

There was no Mermaid of Venice adventure, yet the woman who'd supposedly written it didn't even realize she'd been caught in her lie. Pitiful.

But the question remained: Did that mean Zenobia wasn't the author after all, or was this not Zenobia?

Yasmeen suspected the latter.

“So he might be alive?” Zenobia ventured.

“He still had his equipment and plenty of weapons. But if he hasn't contacted you after a month now . . . he must be dead, I'm sorry to say.” Yasmeen meant it, but she wasn't sorry for the next. “And so that's the second man in your family I've killed.”

Surprise and dismay flashed across her expression. “Yes, of course. My . . .”

She trailed off into a sob. Oh, that was good cover.

“Father.” Yasmeen helped her along.

“Yes, my father. After he . . . did something terrible, too.”

That was good, too. Smart not to suggest that the armed woman sitting in the room had been at fault.

Obviously, this woman had no idea whom she'd targeted by taking Zenobia Fox's place. If asked, she'd probably say that her father's surname had been Fox, as well. She wouldn't know that Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste had once tried to roast a mutineer alive. Yasmeen hadn't had any love for the mutineer—but she'd shot him in the head anyway, to put him out of his misery. She'd shot Gunther-Baptiste when he'd ordered the other mercenaries to put her on the roasting spit in the mutineer's place. When Yasmeen realized that she'd attained a beauty of an airship in the process, she'd shot every other crew member who tried to take it from her.

After a while, they'd stopped trying.

“Was it terrible? I've killed so many people, I forget what my reasons were.” A lie, but she wasn't the only one telling them. Now it was time to find out this woman's reasons. With a belabored sigh, Yasmeen climbed to her feet. “That's all I've come to tell you. A few of Archimedes's belongings are still in my ship. Would you like them, or should I distribute them among my crew?”

“Oh, yes. That's fine.” For a moment, the blond seemed distracted and uncertain. Then her shoulders squared, and she said, “My brother hired you to take him to Venice, and was searching for a specific item. Did he find it . . . before he died?”

Ah, so that's what it was. Yasmeen had spoken to three art dealers about locating a buyer for the sketch Archimedes Fox had found in Venice. A flying machine drawn by the great Leonardo da Vinci, the sketch was valuable beyond measure.

She'd demanded that the dealers be discreet in their inquiries. Not even Yasmeen's crew knew what she'd locked away in her cabin. But obviously, someone had talked.

“It was a fake,” Yasmeen lied.

No uncertainty weakened Zenobia's expression now. “I'd still like to have it. As a memento.”

Yasmeen nodded. “If you'll show me out, I'll retrieve it for you now.” She followed the woman out of the parlor and into the hallway. “Will you hold the rope ladder for me? It's so unsteady.”

“Of course.” All smiles, Zenobia reached the front door.

Yasmeen didn't give her a chance to open it. Slapping her gloved hand over the blond's mouth, she kicked the woman's knees out from beneath her. Yasmeen slammed her against the floor and shoved her knife against the woman's throat.

Quietly, she hissed, “Where is Zenobia Fox?”

The woman struggled for breath. “I am Zen—”

A press of the blade cut off the woman's lie. Yasmeen smiled, and the woman's skin paled.

Her smile frequently had that effect.

“Your hair smells of tobacco smoke but your clothes don't. The dress doesn't fit you. You've tried to take Zenobia's place but you've no idea who you're pretending to be. Where is she?” When the woman's lips pressed together in an unmistakable response, Yasmeen let her blade taste blood. The woman whimpered. “I imagine that you're working with someone. You didn't think of this yourself. Is he waiting upstairs?”

The woman's eyelids flickered. Answer enough.

“I can kill you now, and ask him instead,” Yasmeen said.

That made her willing to talk. Her lips parted. Yasmeen didn't allow her enough air to make a sound.

“Is Zenobia in the house? Nod once if yes.”

“Is she alive?”

Good. Yasmeen might not kill this woman, now. She eased back just enough to let the woman respond. “Where did you hear about the sketch?”

“Port Fallow,” she whispered. “We also knew you were looking for Fox's sister. We realized he must have found the sketch on his last salvaging run.”

Yasmeen had only spoken to one art dealer in Port Fallow: Franz Kessler. Damn his loose tongue. She'd make certain he wouldn't talk out of turn again—especially if this had been his idea. This woman certainly hadn't the wits to connect the sketch to Zenobia.

“You and the one upstairs. Was this his plan?”

Yasmeen interpreted her hesitation as a
no—
and that this woman was afraid of whoever
had
set it up.

She'd chosen the wrong person to fear.

“What airship did you fly in on?”

“
Windrunner.
Last night.”

A passenger ship. “Who's upstairs?”

A different, deeper fear entered her eyes now, but she answered anyway. “My husband.”

A man she genuinely cared for. A man who either didn't care as much in return, or was as stupid as his wife. “Did he create this plan to cheat me? Answer carefully. Whether he lives or dies depends on your response.”

The woman finally used her brain, and gave up the name Yasmeen wanted. “No. It was Peter Mills. He's waiting for us at the Rose & Thorn Inn.”

Miracle Mills, the weapons smuggler. A worthy occupation, in Yasmeen's opinion, but Miracle Mills sullied the profession. He always recruited partners to assist him with the job, but as soon as the cargo was secure, the partners conveniently disappeared. Mills usually claimed an attack by Horde forces or zombies had killed them, yet every time, he miraculously survived.

No doubt that if this couple had secured the sketch for him, they'd have disappeared soon, too.

“Did he hire you just for this job?”

“Yes. We're grateful. We've been out of work for almost a full season, and he promised us a share.”

A full season of what? This woman's soft hands had never seen any kind of labor. Only one possibility occurred to her.

“Are you
actors
?”

The blond nodded. “And dancers. But they replaced us with automatons, and we lost our positions.”

Yasmeen suspected that the automatons displayed more talent. “All right. Call your husband down.”

“Why?”

“Because I'll make you a better deal than Mills will.” Yasmeen wouldn't kill them, anyway. “And because if I go upstairs holding a knife to your throat, he might do something stupid to Miss Fox.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “How do I call him?”

God save her from idiots. “I'll let you up. You'll open and close the door as if you've just come in from outside, and yell, ‘I've got it! Come see!' You'll be very excited.”

“And then?”

“I'll do the rest.” She waited for the woman to nod, then backed away and hauled her up. “Now.”

Yasmeen had to admit, she played the scene perfectly. Her husband rushed down the stairs so quickly, he didn't notice Yasmeen standing in the entry to the parlor until he was almost upon her. She smiled.

The man paled.

 

While two members of her crew escorted the husband and wife up to
Lady Corsair
, Yasmeen searched upstairs. She found Zenobia—still with brown hair, and just as handsome as her brother—tied and gagged in the first bedroom. Two maids lay next to her, bound hand to foot.

Yasmeen sliced through their ropes, and after accepting their thank-yous, returned downstairs to wait so that they could weep or rant in private. Her cabin girl, Ginger, brought Yasmeen's favorite tea down from
Lady Corsair
, and relayed that Peter Mills
was
in Fladstrand, and that Rousseau had sent messages to the passenger airship captains suggesting that they didn't allow Miracle Mills to board any of their vessels before Yasmeen had a chance to speak with him.

None of the captains had yet replied, but Yasmeen doubted that they'd risk
Lady Corsair
chasing them across the skies. So Mills couldn't leave town, even if he became aware that he should.

When Zenobia came downstairs, still moving stiffly after hours of being tied, Yasmeen relayed the same information to her. The other woman nodded and poured herself a cup before sitting on the chair opposite Yasmeen's.

“You've come to tell me that Wolfram is dead,” she said.

“Yes.” Yasmeen studied the other woman's expression. She saw resignation. Sadness. But no sudden grief. “You don't seem surprised.”

“I was supposed to receive word from him six weeks ago. When I didn't, I gave him another week. And then another. By the third week, I had to accept that a letter wasn't coming. So I have had three weeks to adjust myself to the idea.” She sipped from her tea before leveling a direct stare at Yasmeen. “Wolfram isn't part of your crew. So why have you really come?”