Burning Up (29 page)

At long, long last he bowed his head, blinking moisture from his eyes. “You will always have my love,” he told the tide. “And my pledge. Take this, and remember me.”

Drawing back his arm, he hurled the ring over the ocean. The last rays of the sun fired the gold as it plunged in a glittering arc to the sea.

Jack fell to his knees on the rock, a strong man undone by love and grief.

Later, when they told the story, the watchers left onshore argued about what happened next. They all agreed that a woman appeared out of the sea. Some said she was naked, and some saw a silver dress that sparkled like fish scales in the sun, and a few claimed she wore an actual mermaid’s tail as she came out of the water. But all agreed she was the most beautiful sight they had ever seen, their lady, the luck of Farness.

Her long pale hair streamed over her shoulders as if carried by the tide. On her left hand she wore a gold ring with a blue stone that flashed in the sun.

She walked to their major and touched him on the shoulder, and he rose and took her into his arms.

S
he was here.

She was real and warm and back in his arms, her wet, sleek body pressed to his uniform coat, her wild, pale hair tickling his throat.

A wave of love and relief washed over Jack so great he trembled and felt her trembling in return.

She kissed him and drew back, gazing into his eyes.

“You do have something I want,” she told him gravely. “Something I need and never had before.”

He caught her hand, pressing his lips to her palm and then to his mother’s ring gleaming around her finger.

“Your love.” A smile wavered on her lips as he helped her to her feet. “Although now that you have asked me properly, you can never take back the ring. Or your proposal.”

“I don’t want to take it back,” he told her hoarsely. “I meant every word. I love you.”

Her golden eyes glistened with laughter and tears. “Then give me your coat, my love, and let us go home.”

He took off his green uniform jacket and tenderly wrapped it around her. Together, they began the long walk over the jetty and home.

HERE THERE BE MONSTERS

Meljean Brook

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Maili, because she made me realize that I was trying to spell “challenge” just by adding two letters, and this story is all the better for her feedback. And because, years ago, when I mentioned on my blog that I wanted to write steampunk romance, she knew what I was talking about and said she’d want to read it. So she did . . . and I’ll always be thankful she got her hands on this one early.

ONE

B
y the time Ivy found Ratcatcher Row, a stinking yellow fog smothered the docks. She inched along the unfamiliar street, holding her right hand out to her side and using the buildings facing the narrow wooden walk as a guide. Though only an arm’s length away, the thick mist dissolved Ivy’s only an arm’s length away, the thick mist dissolved Ivy’s gloved fingers into ghostly outlines. On her left, the clicking, segmented shadow of a spider-rickshaw scurried by on the cobblestones, and the hydraulic hiss of the driver’s thrusting feet seemed to whisper a single refrain.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Oh, she wanted to. Her humid breath filled the thin scarf she’d tied over her mouth and nose. Her heart pounded as if she’d sprinted through these streets instead of picking her way through the fog, stopping at each building to search for an identifying sign.

But at least she was moving. As long as she could move, she couldn’t be taken.

Seven years ago, after two centuries under brutal Horde rule, the pirate captain Rhys Trahaearn had destroyed the tower that the Horde used to control the nanoagents infecting every person in London. For seven years, Ivy had been free to move as she wished, to feel as she wished—until earlier that night. Only hours ago, she’d been frozen in her bed with her eyes closed, unable to move, listening to strangers search from room to room through her boardinghouse. From blacksmiths to beggars, no one in that cheap tenement owned anything of value. But when someone had come through her door, stripped away her blankets, and prodded at her thighs and breasts as if evaluating her thin body, when the strangers had left and she’d seen the empty beds in rooms that had been earlier filled, Ivy had realized each sleeping person had been valuable—as workers, as slaves . . . which were the only uses the Horde ever had for them.

And if the Horde was returning to London with their controlling towers and paralyzing devices, nothing would stop Ivy from leaving.

A steamcoach waited in front of the next building, rattling and puttering, its gas lanterns penetrating the fog in faint glowing spheres. By the feeble light, Ivy found the establishment’s sign, and almost moved on before her mind registered the painting on the wood: a compass.

The Star Rose Inn. She’d been looking for a picture of a flower, or even a woman, but it was a
compass
rose. A sailor wouldn’t have mistaken it, but Ivy almost had—yet she was here.
Finally here.

Her heart slamming in her ribs, Ivy rose up on her toes to peer through the small glass window. No lights burned within. She’d have to wake up the innkeeper—who’d likely turn Ivy away after taking a look at her—or she could break the lock. A lock hadn’t stopped her when she’d been a child, raised in the Horde’s crèche, it hadn’t stopped her after they’d taken her arms, and it wouldn’t stop her now that the Blacksmith had given her new ones. But even if she broke through the lock, she wouldn’t know which room Mad Machen slept in.

Raising her fist, she hammered on the door. A minute later, a stout man wearing a nightcap and with gray tufts of hair growing behind his ears swung open the small, hinged window. He lifted a gas lamp to the opening. Ivy squinted against the sudden, bright light, and tugged the scarf down, exposing her mouth and nose.

She knew what she looked like. Soot from the day’s work still streaked her face; fog and sweat dampened her red hair. The buckles at the waist of her long coat didn’t hide the thread-bare nightgown underneath, and the trousers tucked into her boots had been old when she’d bought them. The satchel clutched to her chest was nothing but a shirt tied together, and held everything she owned. Her desperation must have hung around her as thick as the mist; she wasn’t surprised when the innkeeper immediately lowered the lamp, swinging the window closed.

“We’re full up tonight. You’ll find rooms on the cheap at The Crowing Cock.”

“Wait!” She curled her fingers around the window frame, preventing its closure. “Please. I’m here to see Captain Machen. I’ve come from the Blacksmith’s.”

She’d never used her connection to her mentor like this before. But two names in London would open almost any door: the Blacksmith’s, and the Iron Duke’s.

The innkeeper paused. “The Blacksmith?”

Ivy pulled aside her nightgown collar, exposing the guild’s mark: a chain wrapped around her neck and a hammer poised to strike. When the innkeeper began to shake his head and close the window again, Ivy quickly stripped off her glove, exposing pale gray fingers and silvery nails.

“The mark is supposed to be around my wrist,” she told him. “But my skin won’t take a tattoo.”

He stared at Ivy’s hand before looking into her face again—perhaps searching for a hint of how she had managed to afford mechanical flesh. Finally, the innkeeper stepped back, opening the door.

“I’ll tell the captain you’re here.”

Ivy waited to expel her sigh of relief until after he’d moved to a door at the back of the empty dining room and disappeared up a narrow stair. Cool and dark, with well-scrubbed walls and floors, the inn’s open dining room appeared cleaner than any she’d ever lived, worked, or eaten in. She was accustomed to pubs like the Hammer & Chain: dank and crowded, stinking of soot and sweat, and where fights broke out more often than not. But she returned every night, because the Blacksmith’s workers could buy a hot meal on the cheap, and she went home to a windowless room that smelled of smoke and mildew, and whose north and south walls she could touch with both hands outstretched. This inn smelled of lemon wax and a warm, yeasty fragrance—a scent that reminded her of walking past the bakery in the crisp early morning, while heading to the smithy in the Narrow.

This was a good place. It gave her hope. Her grip on the satchel slowly eased as her nervousness and fear began to subside.

She’d heard of Mad Machen before he’d come to the smithy. Everyone in England had. Born to a merchant family in Manhattan City, the youngest of four sons, he’d been a surgeon in the British Navy when Rhys Trahaearn had attacked his naval fleet. Mad Machen had been among those forced to join Trahaearn’s crew—then willingly remained aboard. He’d been with the pirate captain when Trahaearn had destroyed the Horde’s tower.

Unlike Trahaearn, who’d been given a duke’s title—and the king’s pardon bestowed upon all of his crew—Mad Machen hadn’t reformed. After taking command of his own ship,
Vesuvius
, he continued pirating from the North Sea to the Caribbean.

But despite all of the stories of murder, insanity, and pillaging, the Mad Machen that Ivy had met at the Blacksmith’s hadn’t been a cruel man. Big and intimidating, with a thick coarse scar around his neck and overgrown dark hair, he’d been a gruff man—but not cruel. Every morning for the past week, he’d accompanied his friend Obadiah Barker to the smithy, and sat with him through the excruciating process of exchanging a steel prosthetic leg for a limb made from mechanical flesh. Mad Machen had borne Barker’s curses and screams without anger; he’d offered a hand for Barker to squeeze—and more than once, to bite. And every evening, he’d carried his delirious friend to the waiting steamcoach.

Ivy had assisted the Blacksmith in the surgery, and attended the two men during the long stretches between sessions, waiting for the flesh to grow. She’d listened to Mad Machen and Barker talk of ships they’d taken and ports they’d visited—Barker speaking a hundred words in his lilting accent to every flattened word of Mad Machen’s—and when Barker’s dread and fear of the next session became overwhelming, Ivy had told him of her own surgery, painting herself as a ridiculous shivering washrag until Barker had begun to laugh. Mad Machen’s gaze had met hers then, and she’d seen his gratitude and appreciation.

She hoped he still felt them now. Her heart began pounding again as the innkeeper returned. He led her across the dining room and up the dark, narrow stairwell. At the top, he opened the first door on the left, revealing a dimly lit parlor.

Though midnight had passed several hours before, Mad Machen wasn’t in bed, as Ivy had expected. He sat in a low chair, a snifter in hand and his long legs stretched out in front of him, knee-high boots crossed at the ankles. He’d unbuckled his jacket. His pale shirt opened at the neck, exposing deeply tanned skin and the puckered white scar at his throat.

He froze with the snifter halfway to his mouth when she entered the room. His gaze swept over her, taking her in, pausing on the makeshift satchel in her hand. Slowly, his gaze rose to her face. Dark eyes locked on hers, he stood.

“Ivy,” he said, in a voice deeper and rougher than she remembered. She realized he’d never spoken her name before.

And she expected him to grant her a favor?

Her nervousness came crashing back. Fingers twisting in the satchel, she glanced around the room. Mad Machen wasn’t alone. On an armchair to her right, a woman with an angular face watched her with narrowed, cat-green eyes. A sapphire kerchief wrapped back from her forehead and tied at her nape, the blue tails tangled in the long black curls and tiny braids. Her short aviator’s jacket buckled to her throat, and her hand hovered near the dagger hilt sheathed at the top of her brown, thigh-high boots.

To Ivy’s left, Barker lay on a green sofa, bushy black hair falling back from his forehead. He hadn’t bothered with a glass, but was drinking a deep amber liquid straight from the bottle. His boots and stockings were off, and he held his feet together as if examining them, pale gray against brown. He rolled his head to the side and looked at her when Mad Machen said her name.

“Ivy!” A smile broadened his mouth as he rocked up to sitting—and sat, swaying. With some effort, he focused on her again. “You’ve come all the way to the docks in this soup?”

“Yes.” Her pulse racing, she looked at Mad Machen. His gaze hadn’t strayed from her face. “At the Blacksmith’s, you said that you’d planned to weigh anchor tomorrow morning. I wondered . . . I hoped that you would allow me passage on your ship.”

His brows lowered, and the small movement seemed to darken every feature. “To where?”

“Anywhere.” She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Just away. “The first city you put in to port.”

He didn’t immediately answer, and she became aware of Barker, no longer smiling. A grim expression had settled on his open face. In the opposite seat, the woman stared at Mad Machen, the gold hoops in her ears swinging with the tiny shake of her head.

Mad Machen either didn’t notice them or disregarded them. He strode across the room, stopping only an arm’s length away. Ivy had to lift her chin to meet his eyes.

“
Vesuvius
has no comfortable quarters. She isn’t a passenger ship.”

“I know. But I can’t afford passage on a—” She broke off when his face darkened further. Hurriedly, she assured him, “I’ll work. I can repair engines, prosthetics . . . or windups, if you have any automata. I can build anything you need.”

“I already have a blacksmith onboard.”

Panic began to take hold. She looked past Mad Machen to the woman, then Barker. “Do you know of any ship that needs one? A ship that departs soon? I won’t ask for a wage—only for board. Please.”

Closing his eyes, Barker shook his head. The woman didn’t respond, only stared back at Ivy, her gaze cold and assessing.