Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (15 page)

She couldn’t object to this, so she waited, heart pounding and breath scarce. He said he could handle the electrical current better than she could, but he wasn’t immortal or impervious to harm.

Denisov edged close to the grid, battery in hand. Then, in a swift movement, propped the battery onto the grid. He took a step back.

“Let’s see if it worked,” she said.

He made a sound of surprise when she placed her hand on his abdomen. Even through the fabric of his waistcoat, the steel of his muscles twitched beneath her touch.

What’s more electrifying? The metal grid, or him?

“Trying to get back in my favor?” he asked, sardonic.

“Trying to keep us alive.” She tugged, then held up a silver buckle. Glancing down to see the loose thread on his waistcoat, he smirked.

She tossed the buckle onto the grid. It touched the wires, and a much smaller spark than the one beforesizzled. The buckle then simply fell to the ground. The battery was working, drawing most of the electrical charge into itself.

Denisov’s brows rose. Clearly, he hadn’t been certain her strategy would work, and she couldn’t help feeling a flare of gratification.

She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, then she and Denisov took the first step together, stepping into the open spaces in the grid. She winced when her shin contacted one of the wires, but all she felt was a mild buzzing sensation, nothing like the fatal shock she would have received without the battery’s assistance.

They made their way quickly down the corridor. Once they reached the door at the other end, she finally allowed herself a full exhalation. They’d done it!

Her relief wasn’t going to last long. “There’s more danger on the other side of this door, isn’t there?”

To his credit, he didn’t try to feed her palliative lies. “Most likely. One way to find out.”

She reached out, and opened the door.

S
HE KEPT IMPRESSING
him with her courage. Mikhail didn’t want to admire her, not after her duplicity. Still, his respect for her reluctantly grew as Daphne Carlisle gamely pressed forward.

The door swung open, revealing a long, wide set of stairs leading downward. Gas lamps flickered on the stone walls, and the air held a distinct subterranean smell. Wherever these steps led, they’d take them deep beneath the city.

With Miss Carlisle following, he descended the stairs, cautious in case any of the steps were booby-trapped.

“Those tapestries are beautiful,” she murmured behind him.

He glanced up. The tapestries hung at regular intervals from the walls, the upper corners of the weavings anchored into the stone. They were, in fact, quite striking, depicting the heavens—constellations and celestial bodies in gold upon deep indigo skies—the craftsmanship so fine that they had to have been woven by hand and not machine.

“Never seen anything like them,” he said.

“They must be centuries old. Precious.” Her brow furrowed. “What a waste to keep them hidden here, where no one can see them.”

“Khalida can, whenever she wants.” His mention of the warlord was enough to get them moving again. Yet they hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he flung out an arm, keeping her from going any farther.

“Think I know what that extendable ladder is for,” he said.

She gave a low gasp. A huge gap lay between the step on which they now stood and where the stairs resumed. Between the two solid steps was a sheer chasm that disappeared into darkness. Rough rocks lined the walls of the abyss, and a dank breeze swirled up from the void. An airship captain couldn’t be afraid of heights, but with his acute vision he could see jagged stone spikes at the bottom of the chasm and had a distinct image of himself—or, worse, Miss Carlisle—impaled on them.

“You’ve got your airship to cross distances,” she said. “Khalida has the ladder. Perhaps we could go back and try to take it from the guard.”

“And bring everyone running like it’s penny night at the brothel.” He shook his head. “Need to find another way across.” He studied the gap between the stairs. Forty feet separated them. “
Blyat.
This distance is too far for me to jump it. What’s the use of being a damned Man O’ War if I can’t do things like this?”

“I imagine that breaking into an Arabian warlord’s vault on behalf of her arch-nemesis wasn’t part of the navy’s intended use of Man O’ Wars,” she said drily. “Not very farsighted of those naval committees.”

No, this little Englishwoman could never be considered timid or reserved .

He glanced up again at the tapestries, especially the two hanging beside the chasm, an idea percolating. “You may be exceedingly clever,
professorsha
,” he said, “but my Man O’ War strength’s going to get us to the other side. Point of fact,” he added, thoughtfully studying the woven wall hangings, “I’ve got some cleverness of my own.”

“I never doubted it,” she answered.

He searched for a sign of sarcasm or hint of mockery in her words, her face, and found none. Echoes of heat still played across his stomach where she’d touched him; her slim fingers had been nimble and deft as they’d plucked a button from his waistcoat. The taste of her still lingered, and the softness of her lips against his. Hell, it had been just a kiss, just the press of her hand against his abdomen. He’d had far more carnal encounters, but those sensations had faded quickly, while Daphne Carlisle’s few touches continued to ring through him.

Misha,
he snarled at himself,
don’t be a sodding idiot. The woman meant to cheat you. She’s a green-eyed liar. Get the astrolabe, get out. Get your diamonds and move on.

“Are you a good jumper?” he asked her.

“My father told me I once leapt six feet straight into the air when I saw a millipede.” She shuddered. “I hate things with lots of legs.”

He crouched down. “At my signal, just imagine a dozen millipedes crawling up your ankles.” Energy and strength coiled within him, readying, eager for release.

“What—?”

He didn’t wait for the rest of her question. Using all the strength of his legs, he sprang up toward the wall. He stepped onto the wall and ran along it. The moment he got close enough to the tapestry, he grabbed hold. He gripped the fabric, clinging to it. The abyss yawned below him. He prayed that the tapestry’s weaver had made the piece good and durable, strong enough to hold his bulk. So far, it held, but that could change in an instant.

Reaching out, he tore at the tapestry’s farthest corner, ripping it away from its anchoring in the wall. He fought to hold on as the fabric swung like a pendulum with his weight.

Miss Carlisle muttered several curses in many different languages.

“Get ready to jump,” he called to her.

“I can’t leap that far,” she protested, “no matter how many millipedes are crawling after me.”

“I’ll come to you.” Using the tapestry like a rope, he gripped it with one hand. He braced his feet against the now-uncovered wall, balancing on his toes. Using the tapestry for support, he ran lightly along the wall, in one direction, then the other. Back and forth he went, gaining momentum, gaining distance with each pass.

He pushed against the wall with his feet, propelling himself closer to where Daphne Carlisle readied in a crouch on the steps. A foot closer, then another, then—

“Now!” He held out his hand, stretching toward her.

Only a moment’s hesitation flickered across her face before she jumped. The vision of her, flying, braid whipping behind her, expression set and determined. Her hand reached for his. For the barest moment, he feared they wouldn’t be able to get hold of each other. But then her palm found his, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and he pulled. Carefully, though. He could dislocate her arm if he wasn’t cautious.

She grabbed the tapestry, as he’d hoped. They hung like that for a few moments, both clinging to their improvised rope, pressed close against each other. He could sense all of her—lithe strength, tensed muscles, her rapid inhalations and exhalations. A woman who’d just trusted him to catch her, trusted him with her life.

“My God,” she gulped. “I can’t believe I just did that.” Her eyes were perfect circles of shock.

“Like a St. Petersburg acrobat.” But she was still pale. What she needed was some distraction. “This is fun. Reminds me of the rope swing that hung over the swimming hole near my family’s summer cottage.”

She seemed eager for the distraction. “We’d spend summers with my grandparents in Northumberland. It was dull as blazes, but we couldn’t dig during the warmer months.”

“Wager you got into lots of trouble during the summer.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth. “My father got quite proficient at apologizing to the neighbors.
I’m so very sorry Daphne let your sheep out of their pen. My regrets for the hole in your roof; Daphne takes after her mother’s side of the family.
Everyone was relieved when it was time to head back out into the field.”

He found himself chuckling at the image of a young Daphne Carlisle wreaking havoc on a sleepy English village. Damned strange to be sharing childhood memories with her, revealing her to be a woman with a life, a history. Human, and flawed. Same as he himself was flawed.

She glanced down, and her face went pale.

“Don’t do that,” he commanded. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

She dragged her wide gaze back up to his. “At least you have beautiful eyes. Palest aquamarine. I could stare into them for hours. Thought so from the moment I saw you.”

He was hanging above an impossibly deep chasm, with jagged stone spikes below ensuring death to any who had the misfortune to fall on them, and there were guards and security systems throughout this vault, but he found himself actually blushing. Apparently, madness had set in. He said, “Danger seems to make you confess.”

“Seems that it does.” True to his direction, she continued to hold his gaze, allowing him to see that her green eyes held flecks of gold, like treasure in a forest.

God, not only was he mad, he was turning into that most dreaded of all creatures: a poet. Hazardous directions indeed. He was made for war, not sonnets.

He nodded toward the next tapestry beside them, fifteen feet away. “Ready to do it all over again?”

“I was looking forward to becoming a permanent part of Khalida’s tapestry collection.” She heaved a sigh, but her breath was shaky, revealing her fear. “But I guess that’s not to be.”

“It’s simple as letting sheep out of a pen. Feet on the wall. Run back and forth. Build momentum. Then I reach the next tapestry.”

She did as he directed, bracing her boots against the wall. At first, they bumped against each other, their feet and bodies out of alignment as they made several clumsy tries. Finally, they found a smooth and easy rhythm, moving naturally together.

Parts of him were machine, but the majority of him was a man. Establishing this kind of rhythm with her turned his mind, and other parts of him, to other activities that required their bodies to move together.

He needed to focus. Or else they’d both go tumbling tits over arse and wind up impaled.

There—he had enough momentum. “Hang on tight,” he commanded her. “I’m going to leave you here while I go for the other one.” Then he leapt, reaching out for the next tapestry.

But he was hasty. His hold of the fabric wasn’t secure. It skidded through his fingers. He slid down along the edge of the tapestry. Clenching his teeth, he managed to grab a firmer hold just before he slipped off the hanging entirely.

A moment ticked by with infinite slowness as he dangled from the bottom corner. Hand over hand, he climbed up the tapestry. Until he was level with Miss Carlisle, who looked white as talc as she clung to the other tapestry.

Her voice shook as she said, “Don’t frighten me like that.”

“My apologies. Unforgivably rude of me to almost fall to my death.”

She glared at him, which was far better than the fear she’d shown a moment earlier. “Let’s just get on with it,” she said, jaw tight.

Mikhail repeated the process, tearing the opposite corner of the tapestry from its anchor, then using the fabric as a rope as he gained momentum, running back and forth along the wall. She did the same, pushing herself nearer and nearer to him. Once again, at the high point of his approach, he reached for her, and she jumped. Their hands met and held.

It came as a shock, the relief and pleasure of touching her, even here in this blasted subterranean vault.

When she’d grabbed hold of the tapestry, and they were side by side, they ran together on the wall, building power. Until he felt they had enough, and with a burst of power, he let go of the tapestry and jumped for the bottom portion of the stairs.

He landed in a crouch, and forced all of his strength into his thighs so he wouldn’t be thrown forward and roll down the stairs. A tumble like that could play hell with the batteries in his pack. Losing one battery wasn’t too bad, but it’d be chancy if he damaged the rest. Once he was sure he’d gotten his footing, he stood and turned back to Daphne Carlisle.

She still clung to the tapestry, which continued to sway after he’d jumped.

“Same as before. Run along the wall,” he directed her. “Then jump.” When she dubiously eyed the distance between the tapestry and the stairs, he said, “I’ll catch you.”

Brave she might be, but she still needed to take a calming breath. He got a nice view—able to see the supple movement of her body, her lithe agility. She
did
remind him of the famous acrobats of St. Petersburg, women in gauzy costumes who flew and danced through the air like carefree butterflies. Except Miss Daphne Carlisle wore a leather jacket, snug trousers, and laced boots, more grimly determined than carefree.

She seemed to have decided she’d gotten enough momentum, and at the closest point of her run, let go of the tapestry. His heart stuttered as he beheld her in midair, entirely unsupported, momentarily fragile. He stretched his arms out to her.

And grabbed her. He felt the impact of her body against his, absorbed her energy into himself, and pulled her close, her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his hips. Impressions rocked through him—her taut muscles, the subtle tremors running through her, sinking into him.