Tethered (10 page)

The scullery woman glanced up, her hands red from the scalding wash water and the fringe of her brown hair curled by the steam. Yasmeen immediately saw the same discomfort that the aviators had shown, but held out her hand to stop the woman’s attempt to stand. “As you were, senhora. I’m only passing through.”

Though clearly uncertain, the woman eased back down on her cushioned stool. “Yes, Captain.”

The galley was spotless and in perfect order. Though there were likely more places to conceal the device here than anywhere else aboard her lady, Yasmeen suspected that Cook would have ferreted out any foreign object in
his
domain and made everyone aware of his displeasure long before Bilson’s associate had managed to use it.

Indeed, the only thing out of place in Cook’s firmly regimented kitchen was Maria Barriga de Lata—the scullery woman. It was a bit late for scrubbing pots, yet Yasmeen wasn’t surprised to see her. She’d heard that Cook had been allowing the woman to rest during the last dog watch. Typically, all cleaning duties would be completed before the eighth bell had been struck, but Barriga de Lata had difficulty sitting for long stretches of time, thanks to the blacksmith butchers in the Lusitanian mines. Yasmeen didn’t know what they’d been hoping to do to the woman—aside from making their own strong laborers who came cheaper than those abducted from Horde-occupied territories—but all they’d managed to do was replace most of her abdomen with a tin can filled with guts and useless clockworks. Only her nanoagents kept her alive.

By the time Yasmeen reached the end of the galley, Barriga de Lata was diligently scrubbing again. Out of pity or some other reason, Cook had relaxed the strict order of his kitchen for this woman—and Yasmeen didn’t care whether she worked the usual schedule, either, as long as her duties were completed every day.

But was Yasmeen being too soft on her, too?

Sense told her that she wasn’t. Still, the question of her softness nagged at her—and in turn,
that
nagged at her. She’d never been uncertain like this.

Perhaps it was impossible to be certain of anything when her life and emotions had suddenly been turned on their heads by one goddamn device, when the man she loved had been so devastated by it…and hadn’t yet returned.

Though she wouldn’t find the device before he came back, she could help him by making certain that Bilson’s associate had no reason to activate it again. Letters needed to be sent to Scarsdale, and to the Blacksmith in London—she didn’t want to see even a glimpse of New Eden, but by the lady, she would be prepared for it. Instructions had to be written for her steward, lead engineer, and quartermaster, ordering them to secure enough provisions for a long trip. She could help Archimedes best by returning to her cabin, by being the captain her lady needed.

And by being here when he came home.

*   *   *

Archimedes ran.

He ran the length of the dock that he’d danced down that afternoon, each step just as quick, quicker—but no partners now, except for those that veered out of his path or jumped out of his way, and no music, only cries of surprise or anger as he rushed past. Past the bridge choked with steamcoaches, the light from their hissing gas lanterns flickering over the surface of the canal, gilding the floating refuse and gleaming in the eyes of swimming rats. Though contained by water and walls, Port Fallow was endless, the curving streets and twisting alleys forever leading to others. Everything that could be felt was here to see and hear, the despair of digging through rotting scraps, the joy of laughter between friends, the sorrow of the lost-and-couldn’t-be-led, the passion of lovers coupling in the dark, the terror of cold nights and rough hands. Like a boilerworm leeching minerals from dirt, he wound his way through the city, drawing out as many emotions as he could. His lungs became a fiery bellows and his thighs screaming pistons, and the pain and exhaustion helped more than all of the rest because it was
his.

But it wasn’t enough.

He could still picture the stabbing hurt in Yasmeen’s gaze when she’d looked up at him, could still feel the
nothing
inside as he’d looked back. He hadn’t cared. God,
that wasn’t him
—but the memory of her expression was his, the vision of her pain that he hadn’t even
tried
to protect her from, and it ripped him open now, filled him with shame.

Even that wasn’t enough.

Every time he turned toward the harbor, the sight of
Lady Nergüi
was a razor to his gut. He couldn’t go back, not yet. Not until he was himself again. But he couldn’t go to the wall, where armed men fired into the night, where the ravenous moans and growls never ceased. There were other places, though—zombies couldn’t be found in Port Fallow’s worst rum dives, but when the patrons had enough to drink, they were almost the same. Stinking, vacant-eyed, and willing to tear a man apart at the slightest provocation.

Archimedes couldn’t see much difference—and shortly after provoking the right one, he couldn’t see anything past the blood and the sweat dripping into his eyes.

This, too, wasn’t enough. But it was something.

Something absurd. Laughing wildly, he swung at a drunken giant and was pummeled in return. Ah, God, yes.
This
was pain, rupturing through his chest and gut, eating away the edges of his memory until the agony of remembering her face and his nothing in response began to blur. Until the goddamn mechanical bugs in his blood were forced to begin healing him, until they had a use other than smothering him into oblivion.

A fist sent him into that void, instead. Archimedes reeled back, hit a wall. His knees folded. The world spun and darkened.

That wasn’t enough.

Killing Bilson might be. That duplicitous bastard had used him to get to Yasmeen. She’d found a new ship and new crew and Bilson had ripped it from her…using her love for him. God. Would she resent him for that? Hate him for it?

That pain of that thought was too much, shredding everything, leaving only despair. It had to be Bilson, instead, the utter
betrayal of using that device. Embracing his horror and anger, Archimedes pushed the darkness away and lifted his head.

Longcock squatted in front of him, a foaming pint in hand, and more foam dissolving in his blond mustache. His rough blue tunic bulged over his arms and chest, covering the guns beneath without concealing them. Behind him, the drunken giant was on the floor, rubbing his jaw.

“And he’s awake,” the first mate said. “Are you done?”

Hurting everywhere, but not enough. “Not yet.”

Longcock nodded, as if unsurprised. “Did you mean to pick out the biggest one?”

“Yes.” And would have gone another round, except the drunken giant was hauling himself up and sidling toward the door, keeping one eye on Longcock. “Not that it does me any good now that you’ve chased him away.”

“I thought the device had addled your brains. But any man who salvages rubbish from a continent full of zombies can’t have many brains to begin with.”

Even smiling pained him, so Archimedes laughed and relished the full-bodied, agonizing effect.

Longcock shook his head. “I can’t figure New Worlders. Buggers like me lived all our lives under the tower in London, and when that tower went down we went mad with feeling. I did things during the revolution I can’t bear to think of now, that even as a pirate, it couldn’t compare. Before that, I thought I knew who I was—and after, I’d have done anything to just stop feeling again, to stop hurting, to know myself again. That’s what every bugger did. But you go and do the opposite.”

For the same reasons, though. Even as the buttoned-up inknose, he’d felt deeply. That signal took it all away—and didn’t let him care that it was gone. Longcock hadn’t known who he was when the tower went down; Archimedes didn’t know who he was when it was up.

He knew who he wanted to be, who he should be—and it wasn’t
this.
None of this was enough.

Doing the opposite wasn’t enough, either, though that was part of him, too. “If I did what was expected of me, I’d bore everyone.”

“True enough. Though that puts another light on Archimedes
Fox, Adventurer,” Longcock mused. “You’re a madman with an airship, searching for danger.”

Almost all correct. “It’s
her
airship.”

“No doubt of that.” The first mate nodded, his gaze shrewd. “And you running away from it is the opposite of sense, too. If I was searching for danger, the last thing I’d do would be leaving that ship.”

Leaving
her.
Yasmeen. Archimedes’ gut clenched. He’d left her. Terrified, he’d left her. Terrified of what he might do, what he might say. His emotions often got the best of his sense—and the last time he’d surfaced out of a tower-induced fugue, he’d sunk Temür Agha’s barge and destroyed his war machines. Christ knew what he might have done to her ship or in front of her crew.

But Bilson had jeopardized her ship and her crew, anyway. She might resent Archimedes for making her vulnerable. But,
by God
, he would convince her to let him stay.

He’d seduce her. She admired his clever tongue. He’d use it in every way a man could to win her over again.

Longcock rocked back a bit. “If you’re looking at me like that, friend, then I know your brain’s addled.”

“Not at you.” With effort, Archimedes stood. “If I was, you’d already be in my arms.”

“And here I thought you were coming to your senses.”

He wasn’t. His emotions weren’t balancing any better than his feet were. But he was finally getting there, heading in the right direction. This felt more like him.

“I’d charm you,” he told the first mate. “You’d fall desperately in love with me.”

“No man could be more mistaken—”

“I won
her
heart. Yours would be no challenge in comparison.”

The other man paused. “You have a point.”

So he did, but Archimedes was already losing it. The oily, smoking funk of the harbor led him to the docks, and revulsion disturbed his brief humor. Pain shot through his knuckles when he gripped the rope ladder. With each step, he reminded himself—he wouldn’t kill Bilson. Dead was better than nothing, but he couldn’t bear seeing her reaction to that statement again.

He wouldn’t kill Bilson for that, either.

The crew must have thought he was there to kill
someone.
Wary, they watched him cross the deck. Blood spotted his shirt. His waistcoat was gone. Yasmeen had taken it off of him before she’d taken him in her mouth, before Bilson’s device had taken the rest. He shouldn’t go to her like this.

But he did, because she was the right direction to take—and because Longcock had been right, too. He’d been an idiot to leave.

She sat at their desk, and looked up as he entered the cabin. Raw emotions raced across her face—fear, pain, uncertainty—and all of them chased by relief.

God. How was it that poets hadn’t dedicated thousands of verses to the expressive tilt of her eyes? Where were the songs to her lips, her sharp teeth? He would write them, and sing them, and lay at her feet.

“You’re all right.” Her gaze lingered on his battered face, the blood on his shirt, but it wasn’t quite a question. She knew he was more resilient than that.

But not resilient enough.

“Not yet.” He closed the door. “But I realized that there was no need to keep running, to keep fighting. The most dangerous person in Port Fallow is on this airship.”

She watched him for a long moment. Then her eyes cooled, and her smile held a knife’s edge. A shiver worked up his spine, delicious and terrifying.

“Yes.” Slowly, she lay down her pen. “I am.”

His heart pounded. Christ, the thrill she gave him with that simple movement outstripped the onslaught of a dozen zombies. Wary, he stalked closer. “Do I interrupt your writing, Captain?”

“No.” She watched him come, elbows on the desk and her fingers steepled, clicking her claws together. Her casual posture was deceptive, he knew. She could spring at any moment. “It is only a reply to Lord Scarsdale.”

Scarsdale.
Though never Yasmeen’s lover, the man had touched her, kissed her when Archimedes couldn’t…when he hadn’t wanted anything more than the woman Scarsdale had beneath his hands and lips.

Old jealousy sparked; over the course of a step, Archimedes
blew that spark into a conflagration. “I don’t want you to write him again. Or see him.”

Her brow arched. “No?”

“I’ll kill him if you do.” And by God, he meant it.

A cruel little smile curved her mouth. “After your performance tonight, maybe I’ll go back to him. He doesn’t even desire women and managed to get hard with me.”

Go back to him?
Rage flared, burning hot. Blind with it, fists shaking, he barely stopped himself from charging, rooted his feet to the deck.

Her body smashed into his without warning and sent him staggering. He caught his balance; she caught his hair, yanked his head back. Her strong legs wrapped his hips. Sharp teeth snapped near his ear, then closed over his exposed throat, her tongue hot against his skin. Archimedes froze as she bit, exquisite needles of pain.

She could kill him like this, so easily.

The heat of rage consumed itself, smoldered into lust. His blood raced, the tension in his muscles subtly shifting from wariness to anticipation. His cock stiffened, ached. He held her against him, her taut bottom filling his palms.

Yasmeen.

He breathed her name. She released his throat, dragged her tongue beneath his jaw. Shuddering, he lifted her against his erection, grinding between her thighs, and a groan ripped from his chest. God, this feeling. So rough, so sweet. No other woman had ever excited him as she did. No other woman ever would.

Her breath rasped in his ear, each inhalation ragged, as if her control was as tattered as his, the need to touch overwhelming.

With her legs anchored around him, she loosened her grip in his hair. He caught her hands, drew them down. No need to hold him, to bite him. He was all right now, exactly where he wanted to be, and this was
him
, hungry for her. Her claws thrilled him, but he didn’t need them. He didn’t need her to threaten him. He just needed her. He just needed to show her that the disinterest had been a lie, that he could never
not
want her, and to soothe the hurt he’d caused. It wasn’t the danger that excited him; it was her. Only her.