Storm Dreams (The Cycle of Somnium Book 1) (21 page)

Cassidy started to turn back to the door. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”

Shea came to her feet in a flowing motion and laid a hand on his arm. “No. Please,” she said. Her eyes had changed and so had her voice. For the second time he felt he was actually speaking to her and not the mask she wore for clients. “There are places they can go. Places inside Twilight islands.” She sat him down on the edge of her bed. “Ones like
you
would never want to go there because it’s never safe to leave. They’re permanent communities.”

“How do you know about them?” Cassidy asked.

Shea pulled her dress around herself as if she were cold, or as if she suddenly felt modest. “I used to help with the underground, many years ago. I still send dreams there from time to time.”

“Why?”

Shea’s gaze fell for a moment and she looked back up at him. “I hate seeing anything in pain. And I know what some buyers do with dreams. How many do you have?”

Cassidy reached in his pockets and brought out two handfuls of glass phials.

Shea’s eyes widened. “There must be—”

“Thirty-two,” Cassidy said. “I didn’t want to let them out until I had somewhere to put them.”

Shea sifted through the bottles. She lifted the gaunt naked dream of a star up to her face. He still gasped for silent air. A look of genuine horror crossed her face. “What have they done to them? Who did this?”

Cassidy ran his eyes over the rest of the phials, their charges mostly sleeping or gently stirring. “Someone who won’t ever come looking for them. At least a hundred others were probably destroyed.”

A green tear ran down Shea’s face. “I’m so sorry. Is this where you’ve been? Did you kill that creature?”

“Not me,” Cassidy said shaking his head.

“Then who?”

Cassidy inhaled a sharp breath. He looked down at the man in the blue gown. “Can you take them somewhere safe?”

Shea nodded. “I promise. It won’t be the freedom you and Banner have, but it will be better than this.”

“Not sure how much to say for the freedom
we
have.” Cassidy nodded and stood.

“Your hour isn’t up,” she said, trying to return to the sultry tones of her comely persona.

“Keep the change,” Cassidy said. “I need to find my plane.”

***

The man down at the runway told Cassidy his fighter had disappeared over a month before.

“Exactly how did my plane manage to vanish?” Cassidy asked. It was the same young man he’d met when he landed. “I tipped you to keep a good eye on her.”

The young man stammered. “You were gone so long. I mean, I didn’t even know if you’d come back.”

Cassidy rested his left hand on the Mauser holster and leaned forwards, locking eyes. “I don’t care who took it,” he said, seething out the words. “I don’t care why. I don’t care how much they paid you.” He leaned in closer, forcing the young man to bend backwards. “I just want to know who has it.”

Cassidy felt a tinge of guilt over pushing the man so hard, but, Number One, the dock man had accepted some sort of bribe. Number Two, it had become obvious that while Arcadia might be civilized by Twilight standards, the law still rested on those with the biggest weapon and the strongest arm. Barbaric, but true. Now he just had to hope the man had been telling the truth.

Besides, Cassidy thought as he finished his several mile walk and neared a group of airships moored to the backside of the island, this will probably get me killed. He stopped for a moment to look the ships over from afar, then stuffed both hands in his pockets and continued.

The airships didn’t have the fantastic colourful beauty of the ones moored at the hotel. These looked like makeshift battleships, bristling with guns and plate armour. They looked too heavy to be supported even by the large balloons holding them aloft, but he chalked it up to Twilight physics. Unlike the
Nubigena
, they didn’t have to fly in the
real
world.

This side of the island didn’t look like the hotel side either. The structures appeared to have been fashioned from triangular pieces of some dark material he could only assume had been pilfered from some other construction project. If this place wasn’t the abode of pirates, he couldn’t imagine what might be.

Cassidy shuffled through a number of plans in his mind. Several clever ploys and complicated schemes seemed almost plausible. Perhaps he could knock one of the guards out and take his clothes, or show up under the guise of wanting to join their ranks. Surely he could sell himself as a mercenary pilot. Banner had said they hired dreams on local ships.

His mind went blank when a man stepped out in front of him from behind a large boulder. The pirate, for lack of a better term, wore a dirty naval uniform of the late seventeenth century. His beard hadn’t been trimmed and he carried what looked like a musket with a magazine sticking out just ahead of the trigger. Cassidy tried to imagine how such a device could even function. The bayonet that topped it off had been serrated and made of something that looked like glass.

“Sorry, mate,” the man said, with a thick and hard to place accent. “This may not be quite the place you’re looking for.”

Cassidy kept his hands in his pockets. “That all depends,” he said, ignoring the guard’s weapon. He turned to the side and stared out at the tethered airships.

The guard glanced over to see what he was looking at and turned back. “Depends on what?”

Cassidy whipped his hand out of his pocket as if withdrawing a gun, but instead gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger. The guard took a jerky leap backwards and levelled his bayonet. Cassidy ignored him. “It all depends,” he said, rubbing his chin, “on whether or not there happens to be a Fokker VII fighter over there.” He motioned to the structures.

The guard narrowed his eyes.

“A Fokker VII,” Cassidy said in slow, enunciated words. “It’s a German fighter plane. Green with black iron crosses on the wings. Very new-looking. Very nice. Very mine,” he said, turning his head and boring his gaze into the man’s eyes on the last two words.

The guard wet his lips. “You’ll have to talk with the Commodore about that.”

“You have a commodore?” Cassidy said, still speaking slowly, in the most patronising tone he could muster. “You mean
you
don’t run this outfit?”

The guard straightened up and returned his rifle to attention position. “No, Sir, I don’t. But I can take you to him.”

Cassidy nodded as if praising a child. “Good, good. Well go.” He brushed past the guard and made his way down a small hill. At the foot he came to an abrupt stop. “Which building?” he asked.

“Commodore’s on the ledge right now,” the guard said, indicating an area just the other side of the first structure. “Hope he don’t mind seeing you right now.”

Cassidy crossed the distance at a fast enough gait the guard had to run to keep up. Cassidy rounded the corner of the bizarre structure, which consisted of triangular panels jutting out at irregular angles instead of fitting together to form flat surfaces.

Across from it, a chunk of rock extended out over the edge of the island and a man stood at the tip, apparently holding court with six other men in what looked like 17
th
century European naval officer uniforms.

The Commodore, which Cassidy took to be an assumed moniker more than an actual rank, was distinguished by a slightly less dirty suit and a feather-plumed hat. Cassidy approached with the guard in tow and reached a mere ten feet from the group before they noticed him.

“Oi,” the Commodore yelled. “Who the hell are you?” The other six turned to face Cassidy.

Inside, a cacophony of fears ran through Cassidy. After facing two of Hell’s own infernal agents, he’d felt nigh immortal, but as the soldier/pirates faced him, hands on pistols and swords, the realisation of just how over his head he was struck home. He adjusted his officer’s cap, brought his right foot to the top of a small piece of rock and folded his arms over his knee. “I’m looking for a plane,” he said, and flashed a grin as if he were asking about the weather.

The Commodore stared at him for several seconds in stunned silence. “A plane?” He finally said. “What sort of plane?”

“A German Fokker VII,” Cassidy said, still forcing a smile. “It’s a fighter,” he added when no one said anything. “It’s from the
real
world. Hard to miss.”

The Commodore adjusted his stance. His men shuffled their feet and glanced back and forth between their commander and Cassidy. “Aren’t you one of Banner’s men?” he asked.

Cassidy gave a curt nod.

“Didn’t know he was in port,” the commodore said. He shifted his balance again and looked over Cassidy’s shoulder as if he might see the port through the mountains of Arcadia.

Cassidy continued his smile, trying to channel Banner’s countenance.

“So,” the Commodore said, picking up the tone of his voice, “Banner’s in the market for a new fighter?”

Cassidy shook his head. “Just want ours back. I assume that means you’ve got it.”

A scowl crossed the Commodore’s face. He glanced around, looking for Cassidy’s backup. “Why’d he send you alone?”

Cassidy spread his hands, palms up and shrugged. “Only takes one to fly a plane.”

The commodore rested a hand on his sabre. Flexed his fingers. He seemed to be considering a number of things at once. These probably included whether or not he was being eyed at a distance by scoped rifles, an attempt to surmise just how dangerous Cassidy really was by himself and last, but probably not least, how much face he would lose if he simply gave in without a fight.

For the first time, Cassidy rested a hand on the holster of his Mauser. “If it helps any,” he said, still jovial and still smiling, “I just need the plane. Banner didn’t say I
had
to kill anyone.”

The Commodore glared. “I think you’re either a madman,” he said, gripping the handle of his sword, “or you’re completely full of shit.”

Cassidy had gone too far. He’d forced the man’s hand. Pushed him into a corner. Cassidy winced inside, but tried not to change the expression on his face. The Commodore and his men appeared to all be carrying flintlocks, but the magazine in the guard’s musket gave him pause. The technology here couldn’t be counted on to follow
real
-world standards. Cassidy also wasn’t a shootist, per se, and the Mauser’s holster hadn’t been made for quick-draw access either. Still, he visually counted out the men on his fingers and gave an exaggerated shrug. “I have enough bullets.”

“I’ve met Banner,” the Commodore said. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and looked off as if remembering. “I don’t think he’s here.” He looked back at Cassidy. “I don’t think he has your back.”

Cassidy had already sized up the group. The Commodore himself seemed like a close-range sort and was probably most formidable with his sabre. The officers to his right and left looked like the duelling kind, though one’s pistol looked shiny and new, probably well-cleaned, every day. The other’s flintlock was clean, too, but looked old and well-used. He would be the first to draw. The other four were mere footmen. They’d prefer range fire and didn’t have bayonets. The guard behind him would probably just run away when the shooting started.

Cassidy numbered the men in his mind and allocated a shot for each, with two shells to spare. He would step to the left as soon as the one officer drew, blocking them off using the first footman as a shield, who Cassidy would shove as he went for his own Mauser. They were close together and a .103 shell could easily pass through two or three men with a lucky shot. He might get even more lucky and take out the duellists.

All this ran through his head in less than a second. A part of him realised he had to figure a lot of it out on the spot. Richthofen was an amazing shot and a hell of a pilot, but he doubted he’d passed down much knowledge of close combat. This was Cassidy thinking. Cassidy learning. He listened to the guard behind him shift his weight. Move back. The officer with the well-worn pistol moved his hand closer to the gold-trimmed butt of his flintlock. Time slowed. This was going to happen fast.

“Boys!” The voice came from behind Cassidy, breaking him from his battle trance. All eyes moved to a spot over his right shoulder. He knew the voice. How the hell had
she
gotten here?

“Shea?” the Commodore said, easing his hand off the handle of his sabre.

Shea pushed past Cassidy as if she’d never seen him before and made her way between the other men. Her glance fell on each as she went by, touching them with the tips of her manicured fingers. They melted an inch or two. Their mouths gaped. Shea was in full form, flashing her green eyes and wafting her scent. She wore a travel cloak, but it gaped open in the front, exposing a dress, that, as usual, covered very little.

“Commodore,” she said, as she reached him. “You haven’t come to see me in weeks.” Her mouth formed a pout. “I finally had to come see you,” she said, and ran a finger down the side of his face. “What are you boys doing?”

No one spoke. If Cassidy thought she’d had a significant effect on him, it was nothing compared to what she did to a group like this. Among sex-starved pirates, this woman was in her element and all-powerful. They glanced between themselves. Wanted to kill each other over her. Probably only the Commodore had enough money to afford an hour with her. The object of their eternal phantasies, standing closer than they’d probably ever been allowed before.

She caressed the Commodore’s chest and slid her hand into his shirt. Even here, in front of his men, he seemed to be having trouble controlling himself. Cassidy could see he wanted to send them all away and have her right then and there, despite the business at hand.

Shea’s hand slid into the Commodore’s pants. The soldiers appeared stuck between leaning closer and retreating. She breathed on the Commodore’s neck. His left arm came up around her back and he turned into her full mouth. Her head retreated to the back of his neck where they couldn’t see whether Shea was kissing it or whispering in his ear. Her hand worked the contents of his pants. His face changed. His eyes widened.

“I’m going to my quarters,” the Commodore commanded and started towards the first structure. Shea walked with him, her hand still down the front of his pants, still massaging.

The soldiers stood, mouths agape. Cassidy couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know what to do any more than them.

The Commodore turned his head and spoke over his shoulder to Cassidy. “Come, Airman. You can examine the craft while I have my way.”

Cassidy glanced at the stunned soldiers and back at the couple as they made their way inside. He followed at an awkward distance. There seemed little else to do, and he was still alive, which was more than he’d expected at this point. The idea of a ship’s captain, even a roguish pirate one, behaving like this in front of his men still baffled Cassidy, but who was he to judge the Twilight and Shea’s effect on men.

The three entered the building, which appeared to be half airship hanger and half pigsty. He assumed the Commodore’s quarters must lie farther back and hopefully looked better than the wreck outside.

Cassidy shut the outer door and Shea took her hand out of the Commodore’s pants. A two-inch hook knife glittered at the tips of her fingers.

“You fucking bitch,” the Commodore said, reaching for his sabre. “You could’ve snagged one of my bollocks.”

Cassidy had his pistol out before the blade cleared its sheath.

Shea gave Cassidy a soft smile and slipped the hook-knife up her sleeve. “You should tell me before you wander around the island,” she said, and unbuckled the belt holding the Commodore’s sheath. It fell to the ground along with his sabre and pistol.

Cassidy shrugged. “Seemed simple enough.”

Shea winked and turned back to the pirate captain. “The Commodore and I have history.” She walked around behind him, took a chunk of his hair in hand and yanked his head back. “Stiffed me for two nights’ pay. I
was
giving him a couple weeks before I showed up, but…” The commodore gave a low growl, but didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Cassidy said. He searched the hanger with his eyes for anything resembling his Fokker. “You could have been killed.”