Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1) (29 page)

As flames licked at her flesh, her eyes flew open. Her mouth was frozen open in a silent scream. Iris griped the sweat-soaked sheets, petrified by the nightmare. She panted. When her heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm, she turned and looked at the small brass alarm clock on her bedside table. A mere five hours gone since she retired. There was no returning to sleep now. After the many times this dream haunted her, only once did she rest again following its terror. By the time she calmed herself enough to even consider it, it would be time for another round of “track the captain.”

A cautious exploration of her mental strength found her lacking. Iris sat up and dangled her feet over the edge of the bed. Placing her head in her hands, she rubbed at her temples and wondered if she could continue. With Rachel gone, all eyes looked to her for guidance and leadership. Strategy and command were not activities well suited to her. The ship needed a captain, and for now, Iris was it. She longed to pass the duties to Danton. Surely the extra years in age he had on her should count for something?

The moment passed and she sighed. These duties were hers and hers alone. As much as Rachel trusted Danton, the captain would never pass command to him before Iris. In fact, if she knew Iris’s mind, Rachel would likely chastise her, if not give her a sound smacking. At the thought, Iris grinned. Rachel had faith in her abilities, so would she.

Hopping onto the floor, Iris crossed the room to her specially designed medicine cabinet. Made from the husk of an old wardrobe, the doors contained bright brass expanding shelves holding jars of all sorts of things. Every receptacle had a fixed spot with a specifically molded recess. Any container out of place would easily jostle, tumble, and break during travel. Some of her collected herbs, flowers, and spices would make the wealthiest of apothecaries envious. One benefit to constant travel was the access to rare plants grown in the farthest reaches of the world. She selected two jars, removing bits of dried, gray-green leaves from each. The components selected, she crushed them lightly with a mortar and pestle and poured the contents into a small linen bag.

She set the pouch down on the work area and flipped a switch at the rear of the cabinet, a bubbling sound telling her the mechanism was working. A one-inch pipe running through the wall, into the wardrobe, and down the inside backing, shuddered as boiling water filled it. Iris removed the lid from the brass teapot and opened the spigot above it. When it was half full, she closed the tap, placed the bag inside her favorite teacup and poured the scalding liquid over it. This installation had been a birthday gift from Rachel a few years ago. Iris didn’t want to think about how much it probably cost her.

The mild brew of pennyroyal and eyebright boosted her spirits considerably. Their restorative properties strengthened her resolve and the warmth of the tea helped to chase away the aftereffects of her recurring nightmare. In another hour or so, she needed to pick up Rachel’s trail. A few hours could make a huge difference in the position of a moving object. However, a clear head was required for those workings and time was the only cure for scattered thoughts.

After finishing her tea, she set her cup aside and noted with a sigh that she was still wearing her clothing from the night before. On a whim, she considered a proper dress, but comfort would be key to her work today. She stood and walked to her dresser. Unlocking the drawers, she selected her favorite sari; the last her mother gave her before she joined the crew of the
Antigone’s Wrath
. The soft, crimson fabric always gave her the feeling of home. The emotional support would be welcome today.

By the time she was dressed, groomed and topside, the normal activities of the ship were going full speed. She was surprised to discover the crew preparing to shine the brightworks. Gas masks piled against the masts and the crate containing the caustic polish was being pried open. It seemed the men had a mind to go into battle looking their best.

Iris climbed the stairs to the pilothouse. Danton was giving orders to a crewman while another manned the wheel. When he saw her, he looked relieved. He finished his conversation and stepped out onto the landing to speak with her.

“How are you feeling?” He touched her elbow, concerned.

She shrugged. “Fair, all things considered. Has Jiao woken yet? I’ll be needing an assistant this morning, and I imagine you’re in need of some sleep.”

“There are a few things I need to take care of first, mostly in the galley, but after that,
oui
.” He yawned and worked a crick out of his neck. It popped loudly, and she noted how much older he seemed these last few weeks. The crisis weighed heavily on everyone.

She smiled in an effort to cover her worry. “Try not to be too long, Monsieur DuSalle. I can’t have my master-at-arms an exhausted wreck. You’ll be no use to me then.”

Danton chuckled. “Aye aye,
Madame le Capitaine
,” he said with a wink and headed down the stairs, but turned to added one last thing. “I shall roust the Princess from slumber and send her to you.”

With that, he was gone. After taking a glance inside the pilothouse, Iris nodded satisfactorily at the happenings before heading to the captain’s quarters. When she entered the passageway to Rachel’s rooms, she jumped at seeing Jiao already standing there waiting.

“Good morning, Miss Singh.” Jiao bowed politely. “Did you sleep well?”

Iris stared at her. “Not particularly, no, but that isn’t unusual.” She sighed and proceeded to unlock the door. “Are you prepared to assist me this morning?”

Jiao held up a small notebook and fountain pen as her answer. “Do you require anything else of me?”

Giving the girl a sidelong glance, she opened the door and admitted her. “Have you ever called a circle before?”

Jiao looked crestfallen. “No, Miss. My limited teachings never reached those heights.”

“Then what do you know?”

She paused for a moment before responding. “I have a good working knowledge of plants and their uses, meditation and focus, spiritual history, and Aether Manipulation theory.”

“But no spellcraft?”

Jiao shook her head.

“Well, it’s not a bad start. At least you’re aware of the ideas and safe practices. And your herbal knowledge is useful.” Iris stopped, turned and looked at Rachel’s desk, frowning. “Especially since I’ve forgotten a few things back in my room.”

After giving Jiao a list of ingredients, she approached the makeshift altar and straightened her tools. The sage was nothing but a pile of ash; the same for the herbal mixture burned in ceremony. Salt was everywhere. She stretched her arms, cracked her knuckles, and got to work.

Mortimer Cross paced his quarters in irritation. He was under strict orders to keep Rachel Sterling alive and in good health. While he understood the reasoning for this, it did nothing to alleviate his desire to reduce her to a sobbing, sniveling shadow of her current conceited persona. He saw through her posturing when no one else did. Beneath the cocky flamboyance was a woman no different from any other: softhearted, weak-willed, and ignorant.

Why she persisted in this masquerade was a mystery to him. He thought he made it perfectly clear she was utterly helpless and hopeless on his last visit. Any freedom she had was dictated by him. Despite the small kindness he showed her by letting some slack out of her chains, that streak of contempt and stubborn will remained. What was being done was to her benefit, to
everyone’s
benefit, couldn’t she see that?

No, of course she couldn’t. Even if he explained the great work of the Brotherhood to her, the stupid cow would never understand.

Brother Cross stared at his bookshelf and let his thoughts roam. Having her aboard the submarine was almost worse than tracking her halfway across the globe. Knowing she was so close, yet still untouchable, infuriated him. She needed to be broken.

Unable to contain his annoyance, he stalked out of the room and down to the holding cell that contained the bane of his existence. Rather than question his presence, the posted guard snapped to and unlocked the door for him.

She didn’t even look at him when he entered. Was she testing him? “Feeling well this evening?”

The muscles in her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

His hand flew at her face before he could control it. “Answer me!” He yelled as the force from his backhanded slap snapped her head back.

Her head dropped forward, her chin resting on her chest. She still refused to speak. Mortimer gripped her chin so harshly he thought he heard it crack faintly. “I said—”

Rachel spat at him, bright blood from a gash inside her cheek spewing onto his face. He sputtered and stumbled a few steps backwards before angrily wiping at the fluid. When he looked at her, she was grinning. Damn her, she was grinning!

“I had no idea you cared so much for my welfare.” Her cheek was already beginning to swell, but she looked oblivious to the pain.

He charged and slammed her against the wall by her throat. “I only ask to see if there might be more I can do to see you suffer,” he said through clenched teeth, barely an inch from her face.

An impulse itched at the back of his skull as he stared into her eyes. Her lips, stained scarlet from her own blood, tempted him. What might she taste like, bruised and battered?

Pure fury coursed through his veins like poison. How dare she attempt to bend his resolve— his
need
— to see her utterly broken before him? With his other hand under her chin, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip, smearing crimson over her skin. Even in the dark and cold, she was still on fire.

After another brief squeeze of her windpipe, he released her, coughing and sputtering as she dropped to her knees. The sight sated him, for now. He slipped out of the cell, contented with her misery.

Every breath burned. The sick, sadistic bastard wanted nothing more than to see her crawl. Rachel pounded a fist against cold metal. “Brother” Mortimer Cross was mad. Absolutely, irrefutably mad.

Even more disturbing was the distinct feeling that the man thought to kiss her. If he wanted to make her suffer, that might push her over the edge completely. With one gentle touch, her level of fear exploded to new heights. The mere thought of his putrid mouth on hers churned her stomach. How much longer would this imprisonment last? Surely the Brotherhood would kill her soon and be done with it. After all, they had the ring. What did they need her for?

Rachel sat back and pulled her knees to her chest. At least Iris was all right. It was also possible that Danton pulled through. And what of her ship? Had the
Antigone’s Wrath
survived along with them?

Her cell door opened and she tensed for a moment. It was the “doctor” again. Whatever her tormentor did to her, he always sent the healer to clean up his mess. Rachel reasoned he must be on orders to deliver her unmarked. The thought did not sit well with her. Whatever madness they needed her for, they wanted all of her for it. If she outlasted this business, she would not only encourage Danton, but join him in his quest to eradicate the lot of them.

Wordlessly as always, the healer worked his magic and departed. No sooner was the man gone than the now-familiar tingle of Iris’s presence draped over her like a warmed blanket. Only now did she allow herself tears. Here, in those moments with the comfort of her friend to shelter her, was she vulnerable. She rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes.

“Find me, Iris,” she whispered as exhaustion overtook her.

Silas lifted the face shield and looked around, confused, when the double blast of the ship’s alarm startled him from his work. Welding a piece like this was delicate work. Any jarring would ruin it and that would be the end for him, no question. He needed the machine to work, if only for a short period of time. He doubted the Brotherhood needed a reason to kill him, but if they were distracted by the Machine, there could be time to sneak away.

“Why the alarm?” Silas asked the ever-present guard.

The man looked down at his watch before answering. “Docking.”

“Docking?” Silas panicked. “I was told ten days. It’s only been—”

“Ten days,” the guard finished, looking annoyed with the inventor.

“Are you certain? I was quite sure I had more time.” Silas glanced at the man, who told him with a look that he had been counting the minutes and seconds until he was rid of this tedious duty. “It seems not. Rather a good thing I’m moments away from finishing, then, isn’t it?” He gave a nervous laugh.

Before he could return to work, the floor lurched beneath his feet. The vessel groaned in protest as momentum urged them onwards. Grateful he waited to restart the blowtorch, Silas paused a few seconds more to ensure the ship was still, then slammed down the face shield and completed the welding. Mere moments later, the workshop door opened with a clang. Brother Mortimer Cross entered, a pack of bowler-hatted men behind him in the passageway.

“Your time is up, Mr. Jensen,” he said with finality. “I do hope you’ve completed our project on schedule.”

Silas nodded grimly. “Minus one piece.”

Cross approached the workbench to admire the machine. As he circled it, he punctuated the silence with hems and haws, but ultimately deemed it worthy. “You understand if I ask you to stay for the inaugural demonstration, yes?”

“I wasn’t aware I had a choice in the matter,” Silas answered. He expected at least this much. The question was, would they release him when it seemed to run as it should, or dispatch him without a second thought? He remembered the monk and scribe from the monastery with a shudder.

“Shall we, then?” Brother Cross motioned him out of the room.

Silas fell into step with the group of men awaiting him as they tromped through the corridors of the underwater craft. The low rumble of the idling engines grew stronger as they progressed aftwards. They came to a halt in front of a guarded door, and he held his breath. His suspicions about the room were confirmed when a slightly ragged, but still defiant, Rachel was hauled out. When her eyes caught Silas’s, she tossed him a wink before they pushed her to the front of the group. He shook his head and smiled half-heartedly. That might have been the nicest exchange they’d had since he boarded the
Antigone’s Wrath
. It was a sad victory, but he cherished it nonetheless.