Isla had never wanted to inflict bodily harm upon a person as much as she wished she could on Nigel Crowe. In her current state, she figured she could comfortably flick a throwing star dead center in his forehead without batting an eye. He was underhanded and insulting. Isla had never met a man with such a handsome exterior who possessed such an icy interior. Worse, he was nearly impossible for her to read, which was unusual.
She had battled him on multiple occasions right in his very offices where he worked under Bryce Randolph, an odious and self-serving man. Her most contentious confrontation to date with Crowe had occurred six months previously when he had ordered the immediate arrest of a man she’d been counseling. Her client was a good man with a wife and seven children, but he had been caught too late in the city after midnight on a full moon and was responsible for some minor destruction of property. Isla had used every ounce of reasoning, knowledge, charm, and finesse she possessed, but to no avail. She had never forgiven Nigel Crowe, the force behind the arrest, and she’d vowed to find the chink in his armor, some bit of evidence that would overturn the harsh sentence placed on a man with poor judgment but no intended violence or destruction.
Mr. Lewis, on the other hand, was quite a dashing hero, and she appreciated his defense of her at the meal’s beginning, when Crowe had wasted little time in finding his way to his personal store of familiar insults. A woman could certainly do worse than spend a dinner being defended by a handsome medic.
Her protective instincts had surged immediately to the surface upon meeting the three men and realizing that Nigel Crowe’s presence aboard the flight was no coincidence. The man didn’t need to visit Port Lucy; he sought to catch one or all three of the shifters in the act. Mr. Quince, especially, engendered a soft spot in Isla’s heart. He was a gentle grandfather, for heaven’s sake, forced from his home because threats had been leveled against either him or his family.
The meal wound to a close, mercifully, and although Mr. Bonadea politely invited her to join them for port and cigars, she cited fatigue and made her excuses for the evening. She also politely declined Captain Pickett’s offer of escort back to her quarters, insisting he remain with the other passengers. “I’ve asked enough of you already,” she told him. “I’ll not be responsible for your dereliction of duty.”
He bowed lightly and replied, “Your wish, madam. We shall see you in the morning then at breakfast. It is prepared by half past five, however the ’tons keep it warmed for those who sleep later.”
Isla bid the gentlemen good evening and crossed the outer top deck, drawing her jacket tight, and muttering. “Wish I could be up at half past five.” Thanks to Melody, Isla, who usually awoke refreshed and energetic at five every morning was no longer able to do so. Six was now the earliest she could manage, and she arose feeling like death.
She ventured close to the side and peeked around the sail windscreens, holding her breath at the stiff gust of wind that caught her face as she squinted to see the world below. They were well away from England, and the ocean stretched out eternally, dark and mysterious. She’d never been on the other side of the Atlantic, and now that she had time to think, she found it intimidating. She’d been so worried about finding passage to get to Malette that she hadn’t really considered how far from home, from everything and everyone familiar, she was going to be.
The huge propeller on the ship’s side sliced through the air with a comforting, if loud, rhythm, and she looked overhead at the enormous balloon attached to the ship with cables as thick as her arm. She grew dizzy and steadied herself against the bulwark. The airship was a scientific marvel, truly magnificent, and although she’d flown plenty of times in her life, she’d never taken time to be still and appreciate the sheer size and power of the vessel.
She sighed and rotated her head, stretching her neck and massaging her knotted muscles with fingertips that were numb with cold. Had it only been forty-eight hours since Hazel had told her Malette’s curse might become permanent? Since then, her sole purpose had been to find the witch. And when she’d learned that Malette was in the Caribbean, she’d felt a panic like no other. All things considered, she was better off on this flight than a larger, commercial one. Other than Nigel Crowe’s insidious presence, there were far fewer people to interfere, to ask questions. She would be safer at night while she slept.
Isla made her way to the first mate’s cabin and switched on a small Tesla lamp before shutting the door and locking it. She readied for bed, but felt restless. She withdrew her diary and pen and sat at the small table near the bed.
Captain Pickett: irascible, impatient, arrogant
Adam Lewis: pleasant, well-mannered, charming
Arnold Quince: gentle, kindhearted, patient
Jacob Bonadea: intelligent, professional, genial
Nigel Crowe: spawn of the underworld
She supposed that last bit was unfair, but she’d never met anyone with such a strong dislike for shifters. She suspected some of his vitriol stemmed from fear, from not understanding that the majority of predatory shifters were no danger to the human population. Scientific studies showed clearly and repeatedly that the temperament of the animal reflected that of the human. If a man were not a murderer as a human, he would not be so as a wolf, either. Instinct remained when a person shifted, however, so proper containment or arrangements were necessities for those who lived with families or in densely populated areas.
Unfortunately, many shifters had limited options, so unintentional destruction of property or general mayhem were often incidental consequences of their poverty and lack of resources. Some shifters self-medicated with illegal botanical aids, but that often led to painful addictions or even death.
Isla sighed and snapped shut her diary. She tossed it inside her portmanteau and pulled out a book she’d bought the day before. A colleague had developed a new treatment, a hypnosis that could affect the shifter’s behavior even while in animal form during the full moon. The implications were tremendous. If a shifter’s human brain could exert control over the animal’s instincts, many of the population’s current problems could be mitigated.
She secured the lamp into a docking station on the nightstand next to the bed and settled under the covers.
This will be the night. I will read and lose myself in the book, and it will keep me awake half the night. I’ll be tired tomorrow, but happy, because I will have stayed awake . . .
If only . . .
Every night she hoped for the same thing, and every morning she realized the curse was still in place. With a sigh, she cracked open her new book and burrowed down, intending to read the whole night through. After a few fits and starts, and rereading the same two paragraphs repeatedly, she finally quieted her mind enough to focus. Time slipped by, and she was nearly halfway through the book when she yawned and rubbed her eyes.
She retrieved her pocket watch from under her pillow where she kept it next to a small dagger. Five minutes until midnight. She swallowed her disappointment. She’d hoped more time had passed. In five minutes, she would lose consciousness, her heartrate and breathing would slow dramatically, and she would remain in that state, entirely unrevivable, until six in the morning.
She was going to have to accept that Hazel’s research had been sound, that the spell would not reverse on its own. Isla would never be free of it without a cure from the witch who had cast it, no matter how much she willed it. Night after night, for ten long months, she’d tried to keep her eyes open past the stroke of twelve, but to no avail.
She huffed out a frustrated breath and closed the book. She replaced the pocket watch and turned down the lamp, but not entirely. The remaining minutes ticked by, and she felt herself slipping into that deep, dark place of nothingness. A place that was void of anything. A place where even nightmares might have been a comfort.
Her limbs grew heavy, her chest rising and falling in its own rhythm that she was powerless to control, and she fell noiselessly into the abyss, her last conscious thought a soundless protest of frustration and fear.