Isla left the captain, feeling lighter. She’d not realized how heavy her burden had been, how much Hazel had been a support for her, a place to express her fears. Even though the captain hadn’t found a magical solution to her dilemma, it was immeasurably reassuring to have confided in him. She fought a grin. “Pickett,” indeed. It was as though she were now one of the men.
Pickett may not be entirely approachable or warm at first glance, but she trusted him. And he’d promised to return her weapons. She missed her throwing knife and the thigh holster she always had settled in place.
With the day to herself, she decided to explore the ship. As she wandered the common areas, she saw the captain’s personality reflected in the deep, rich tones of the timber, the masculine, solid craftsmanship that combined strength with form. The smallest details—trim around doors and along the hallways, new Tesla lamps fastened to the walls—none of it was fussy or ornate. It suited him, she decided as she descended to the middle deck, which was bisected lengthwise by a narrow hallway. To the right were passenger cabins; to the left, a library, a lounge, and the infirmary.
The door to the lounge was open, and she spied Mr. Quince and Mr. Bonadea comparing notes. She wondered if they were truly working together on a project in Port Lucy or if it had been a story concocted for her sake and Nigel Crowe’s.
Thoughts of her nemesis soured her mood, and she frowned as she passed the library and descended another level to the engine rooms and cargo hold. It was loud, but the genius of the Stirling Engine cut the noise of a regular airship by three-quarters. She stepped inside the large room, keeping to the perimeter and away from the six ’tons who operated the engine.
Two of the ’tons maintained a steady level of the oil necessary for the engine’s heating component, and she stood aside and watched the process, impressed by their efficiency and with the sheer size of the engine. And this was a small ship!
She observed a moment longer, then returned to the dark hallway. The doors to the cargo hold were locked for safety purposes, which she didn’t mind in the least. She’d told Pickett that she’d been prepared to stay in there if that was her only option, but she had to admit an irrational fear of the place. Cargo holds were loud, cold, and typically dark.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she suddenly felt uneasy. She turned away from the cargo hold door to find Nigel Crowe standing behind her, quietly watching. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she put her hand on her waist atop her extra knife.
He took a long drag on a cheroot, smiled, and released a plume of smoke.
“What are you doing, Mr. Crowe?” Her voice was steady, pitched low and soft as she reverted to years’ worth of training and practice.
“Taking a tour of the ship, much as you are, I assume.”
She kept her fingers relaxed. “But what are you doing, Mr. Crowe? Why are you here?”
“It’s not safe for a woman to be wandering alone on a ship filled with men and automatons.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Why are you aboard this ship? What in Port Lucy takes you away from London right this minute?”
His eyes narrowed, and his smile faded. “Important business.”
“I would love to hear about it.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Her heart thumped. She suspected he truly meant harm to the three shifters aboard, but she wasn’t certain how or when because he was so frustratingly impossible to read.
“Perhaps I can lend a hand. I understand your responsibilities on the Committee better than most.”
He chuckled. “You thwart my responsibilities at every turn, Miss Cooper.”
“Not at all. I am more than willing, as you are aware, to apprehend violent criminal shifters and turn them over for trial. You also know I willingly testify against those who deserve it; I have seen you at more than one tribunal.”
He studied her for a long, unnerving moment. “Your refusal to notify the Committee of every predatory shifter you encounter has led to destruction of property and life.”
Every muscle tightened, and she tried to relax, keep her stance easy. “One death. One accidental death.”
He waved a hand. “Sémantique. There is a reason for the registry, Miss Cooper, and that is to protect your fellow countrymen and countrywomen. You put potentially dangerous criminals above innocent citizens.”
He hadn’t moved, but she noted his tightly-coiled frame, as though he were primed to spring. Movement in his jaw signaled his tension, and she wished he were a shifter. Then she would be able to calm him enough to get back to the upper decks. She didn’t want his death on her conscience, not to mention the havoc such a thing would rain down on Pickett Airships. It would throw a spotlight onto the captain when he most needed to remain innocuous.
“Why do you dislike shifters so much? They are human, you know. As human as you and I.”
“They are nothing like us.” He dropped the cheroot on the floor and ground it with his foot, leaving an ugly smear on the polished wood. “And they have duped the wealthiest and most influential among us.” He gestured upward, and she assumed he referenced the captain.
“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean.”
“You do not?” He laughed. “How clever you must find yourself. You may deceive the rest of the world, but you do not deceive me. You are more involved in the shifter world than anyone except the beasts themselves! Do not insult me by suggesting you’re unaware of certain people’s activities.”
He inched toward her.
Isla stood still, curling her fingers around the hilt of her knife. “Surely you’re not making accusations against anyone specific, Mr. Crowe. Especially someone of status, as you seem to imply. Such a thing might be interpreted as slander, and I’m certain you understand the consequences of making enemies of people of influence.”
His nostrils flared, and he stepped back. “I will never be far from your trail, Miss Cooper.”
“Then I suggest you give my trail a wide berth, Mr. Crowe, because my patience does know limits.” Indeed, she found it wearing thin, and his threats left her feeling a frustrating combination of anger and fear. There were so many variables in play, not the least of which was her own search for her cure, and this man had the power to derail all of it.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs at the far end of the hallway, and Captain Pickett came into view. She inhaled deeply, releasing it quietly in relief. She deliberately turned her focus from Crowe.
“Captain, hello.” She forced a smile as she released her knife and rested her hand on her hip.
He looked between her and her unwelcome companion. “What are you doing?” he asked Crowe.
“Not a thing, Captain Pickett.” The smile was back in place, though Isla took petty satisfaction that it was strained. “Bryce Randolph mentioned that you and he were in the same regiment together in India, were you not?”
Isla absorbed that information with surprise. She’d not realized the captain was acquainted—apparently rather well—with Nigel Crowe’s direct superior. Was that why he had demanded passage? Was he working under Randolph’s orders?
Pickett eyed Nigel, and his mouth twisted in a cold smile. “Please return to the upper decks, Mr. Crowe. I prefer my passengers to stay away from the lower level.”
Nigel glanced at Isla. “All of your passengers? Or do you allow privileges to the prettier ones? Perhaps you hope to give Miss Cooper a personal tour?”
“My activities are none of your concern, and if you give voice to that insinuation again, you’ll find my fist in your face.”
Crowe smirked, but rather than belabor the point, he turned and left.
Isla breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if the entire voyage would be charged with tension because of the government agent.
The captain’s attention turned to her, and she suddenly felt like a misbehaving child who had been caught fighting with a sibling. She lifted her chin, defensive before he even uttered a word.
“Did he hurt you?” The question was gruff, but still caught her by surprise.
She shook her head, disarmed. “There wasn’t time. And I was nigh unto ending the conversation.”
“Perhaps consider avoiding dark and isolated places for the remainder of our voyage.”
Her irritation returned, and she reminded herself that Pickett did not know her well. “I should not have to do that,” she said evenly.
He waved a hand. “We can discuss social philosophy later. Of course you should not have to, but the fact is, you do.”
“I am not foolish. I am aware of whom I can and cannot best. I am not concerned about that one. And I thank you for your defense of me, but I did have the situation in hand.”
“You are assuming you have control over who may corner you in a dark hallway, Cooper.” His gaze flicked to her waist. “I presume you did not enter my locked cabin to retrieve your weapons.”
“Of course not!”
“Then you lied to me.” He held out his hand.
Her temper frayed. “Would you not have done the same? Favor or not, I have no way of knowing what your intentions are, or anyone else’s aboard. When you searched my belongings I had yet to meet the other passengers; I had no idea what I might face.”
She snatched her knife from her waistband and flipped it quickly in the air, catching the blade and handing it to him handle-first. “Here, then.” She used her other hand to pluck two throwing stars from her corset and brandished them as well. “May as well confiscate these also! I might throw them through the wall from my cabin to yours, kill you in your sleep, then stage a mutiny.”
He endured her angry tirade. Holding her gaze, he took the weapons from her and held them up for closer inspection. He raised a brow at the throwing stars, as though reluctantly impressed. “Japanese shuriken.” He glanced at her. “Are you any good?”
Suddenly she was figuratively disarmed again. She frowned and cleared her throat. “Absolutely.”
He studied her for a moment. “Come here, Cooper.” He handed the knife and stars back to her and unlocked the cargo door. A rush of cold air invaded the hallway, and Isla shivered. When she hesitated, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Come.”
“It’s dark,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.” She followed him into the cargo hold, where he flicked on a wall-mounted Tesla lamp and closed the door.
The hold was neatly organized, a combination of the passengers’ personal belongings and oil barrels used for operating the engine. There were also crates marked Port Lucy against the far wall. She’d forgotten that Pickett conducted legitimate trade with other countries and governments.
He pulled her elbow when she hovered near the door and motioned with his head toward the far wall, which was stacked waist-high with crates. “Show me your star-throwing skills.”
She looked at him in surprise. “It will scratch the wall.”
He shrugged. “It’s a cargo hold. I have no issue with a few nicks and scratches on the walls. But perhaps you brandish your weapons more for deterrent than actual use, which I can certainly understand—”
She whipped her knife from its sheath and lodged it in the target wall before he finished his sentence.
“Well, well. So the good doctor is more than just talk.”
She rolled her eyes, and he motioned at her other hand. “Now those.”
With a quick flick of her wrist, she stuck the stars fast in the wall on either side of the knife. She smiled, satisfied.
“Impressive.”
“I ought to be able to hit anything moving or stationary, considering how much time I devote to it.”
He looked at her askance. “When do you have time to practice knife throwing?”
“Between clients. After dinner. Early morning before work.” She winced. “Used to be early morning. Not so much now.”
He eyed her, and then moved to the far wall and retrieved the stars and knife. “Who taught you to use these?”
“A gentleman from Japan owned a sword and knife shop near my home. Taught my friend, Will, and me. He was tickled a little British girl had such an interest in katana and shuriken.” She smiled. “He was a good man. Very patient.”
Pickett extended the stars, and she took them. “They typically aren’t used for the final blow like a knife would be, but are often tipped with poison. The star scratches the skin, the poison seeps in . . .” She drew a thumb across her neck.
He raised a brow and handed back her knife. “And you wonder why I confiscated your arsenal.”
She smiled in spite of herself and shook her head. “I can count on one hand the times I’ve actually used these things in an altercation. The ray gun is usually deterrent enough.”
“I suppose you’re equally precise and deadly with the gun.”
“Mais bien sûr.” She grinned. “Perhaps you should be grateful I’m here and can act as your protection, Pickett.”
“If I return your gun, what guarantee do I have that you won’t accidentally blast a hole in the side of my ship?”
“You do not know me well, so I will forgive you for asking that.”
His lips turned up at the corners, and he nodded toward the door. “We should return before Crowe spreads rumors and ruins your good name.”