Skies of Steel

Chapter One

Palermo, Sicily

DAPHNE CARLISLE DUCKED as a mechanical arm soared past. It narrowly missed her head and smashed on the wall behind her. Pieces of rusted metal flew everywhere, landing in her hair and scattering on the floor. Someone gave a coarse laugh. Angry shouts ensued, followed by the sounds of fisticuffs and wooden furniture shattering.

Assuredly, this isn’t the Accademia.

Straightening, Daphne picked the bits of metal and gearworks from her hair. She tugged on her short, fitted jacket and smoothed out her skirts. This tavern might be the gathering spot for thieves, miscreants, and scoundrels, but she needn’t look as though she was one of their number. Her mission necessitated appearing as respectable and honest as possible. She couldn’t fail. The stakes were far too high.

She scanned the smoke-filled room. The fight had subsided, or at least the participants had grown bored of their brawl. Men—and some women—of every nation huddled around tables, their hands possessively wrapped around mugs and greasy wine glasses. One group gambled using a clockwork game of chance, others used old-fashioned playing cards. An automaton with a concertina honked out what might be music, but it had to have been years since the mechanized musician had been serviced. It missed every fifth note.

"Looking for someone, bella?" someone slurred at her in Italian.

She raised an eyebrow at the poorly groomed man staggering toward her. Stains covered his clothing, and his hair hung in greasy strands over his collar. Wine dribbled from the rim of his cup and onto his worn shoes.

You’ve found him, the man added with a leer. He stood far too close. Fumes of many varieties wafted off of him.

If I’m in need of a lesson in bad hygiene, she answered, also in Italian, I know precisely who to call upon.

The man blinked at her, then slowly realized he’d been insulted. Hey, now, I’m only being friendly. He reached for her.

She knocked his hand back. I’ve got more than enough friends.

He fumbled for her again. I—

Moving as quickly as her skirts would allow, Daphne hooked her foot behind his ankle, then tugged. He stumbled backward, landing with a thud in a nearby chair. An expression of bafflement crossed his face, as though he couldn’t quite understand how he’d wound up sitting.

"Truly, signore, she said, shaking out her skirts once more, there are plenty of women here who will find your … charms … alluring. I’m not one of them."

Before he could form a rejoinder, Daphne moved on. She hadn’t time to waste with drunkards and fools.

Pressing further into the tavern, she saw that it stretched out in a labyrinth of rooms.

Now I know how Theseus felt.

Except the creature she sought wasn’t a bull-headed monster, but another kind of hybrid. One that the Ancients would most definitely have found equally fantastic. She had no ball of string to help find her way out of this place, and it struck her again how very alone she was in this endeavor.

She dodged more groping hands and impertinent questions, all the while conscious of how out of place she had to look. Palermo, and this tavern in particular, served as the gathering place for the seafaring criminals of the western Mediterranean. Part of the Mechanized War was being fought in the sky using airships, but seafaring battles were still common, and the war had destabilized the seas, leaving them ripe for infestation by pirates and smugglers. Not since the days of the wild Spanish Main had the oceans been so perilous.

Which was precisely why Daphne needed to travel in the sky, and why she’d come to this place.

But the man she sought was nowhere to be found. She cursed under her breath.

He had to be here. His airship, Bielyi Voron, had been spotted nearby. Through the judicious use of bribery, she had learned that he frequented this tavern. If he wasn’t here, she would have to come up with a whole new plan, but that would take costly time. Every hour, every day that passed meant the danger only increased.

She walked past another room, then halted abruptly when she heard a deep voice inside the chamber speaking in Russian. Cautiously, she peered around the doorway. A man sat in a booth against the far wall. The man she sought. Of that she had no doubt.

Captain Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov. Rogue Man O’ War.

Like most people, Daphne had heard of the Man O’ Wars, but she’d never seen one in person. Not until this moment. Newspaper reports and even cinemagraphs could not fully do justice to this amalgam of man and machine. The telumium implants that all Man O’ Wars possessed gave them incredible might and speed, and heightened senses. Those same implants also created a symbiotic relationship between Man O’ Wars and their airships. They both captained and powered these airborne vessels. The implants fed off of and engendered the Man O’ Wars’ natural strength of will and courage.

Even standing at the far end of the room, Daphne felt Denisov’s energy—invisible, silent waves of power that resonated in her very bones. As a scholar, she found the phenomenon fascinating. As a woman, she was … troubled.

Hard angles comprised his face: a boldly square jaw, high cheekbones, a decidedly Slavic nose. The slightly almond shape of his eyes revealed distant Tartar blood, while his curved, full mouth was all voluptuary, framed by a trimmed, dark goatee. An arresting face that spoke of a life fully lived. She would have looked twice at him under any circumstances, but it was his hair that truly made her gape.

He’d shaved most of his head to dark stubble, but down the center of his head he’d let his hair grow longer, and it stood up in a dramatic crest, the tip colored crimson. Dimly, she remembered reading about the American Indians called Mohawks, who wore their hair in just such a fashion. Never before had she seen it on a non-Indian.

By rights, the style ought to look outlandish, or even ludicrous. Yet on Denisov, it was precisely right—dangerous, unexpected, and surprisingly alluring. Rings of graduated sizes ran along the edge of one ear, and a dagger-shaped pendant hung from the lobe of his other ear.

Though Denisov sat in a corner booth, his size was evident. His arms stretched out along the back of the booth, and he sprawled in a seemingly casual pose, his long legs sticking out from beneath the table. A small child could fit inside each of his tall, buckled boots. He wore what must have been his Russian Imperial Aerial Navy long coat, but he’d torn off the sleeves, and the once-somber gray wool now sported a motley assortment of chains, medals, ribbons, and bits of clockwork. A deliberate show of defiance. His coat proclaimed: I’m no longer under any government’s control.

If he wore a shirt beneath his coat, she couldn’t tell. His arms were bare, save for a thick leather gauntlet adorned with more buckles on one wrist.

Despite her years of fieldwork in the world’s faraway places, Daphne could confidently say Denisov was by far the most extraordinary-looking individual she’d ever seen. She barely noticed the two men sitting with him, all three of them laughing boisterously over something Denisov said.

His laugh stopped abruptly. He trained his quartz blue gaze right at her.

As if filled with ether, her heart immediately soared into her throat. She felt as though she’d been targeted by a predator. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to run.

I’m not here to run.

When he crooked his finger, motioning for her to come toward him, she fought her impulse to flee. Instead, she put one foot in front of the other, approaching his booth until she stood before him. Even with the table separating them, she didn’t feel protected. One sweep of his thickly muscled arm could toss the heavy oak aside as if it were paper.

"Your search has ended, zaika. His voice was heavily accented, deep as a cavern. Here I am."

She wondered how he knew to speak to her in English rather than Italian, but, glancing down at her painfully tidy traveling costume, she realized she may as well have worn a sash bearing the Union Jack.

How do you know it’s you I seek? she returned.

With one broad finger, he tapped his ear. The pendant hanging from his lobe swung slightly with the movement. These tell me everyone’s secrets.

Of course. Man O’ Wars had hearing and eyesight far superior to a normal man’s. He’d heard her fumbling her way toward him.

"What are your secrets, zaika?" Without straightening from his sprawl, he looked her up and down in bold perusal.

Heat flooded her cheeks and spread throughout her body. One would think, having lived in Italy for as long as she had, she’d be no stranger to a man’s impudent stare. Something about the way Denisov stared at her, though, sent a new, hot awareness through her.

I have no secrets, she lied.

A corner of his mouth turned up. Everyone does. The fun is trying to discover what they are.

I wonder at your definition of fun, she said, raising an eyebrow.

No need to simply wonder. His smile turned blatantly carnal. You can find out for yourself.

Good God. Blushing virgin, she most certainly wasn’t. So why did she feel like one in his presence, and with every word from his mouth? And why did she get the feeling that most women took him up on his offer?

She straightened. Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov?

"Captain Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov, he answered. I may have been drummed out of the tsar’s navy, but I still captain my ship."

Precisely why I sought you out. Records on rogue Man O’ Wars were scarce, since most governments didn’t like to make such knowledge public. But Denisov had been one of the Russian Imperial Aerial Navy’s finest. Even in Britain, his desertion had been trumpeted in the newspapers. One thing all articles had left out was the reason why he’d gone rogue. Rogue Man O’ Wars were notorious for keeping silent about their rationales for turning their backs on their countries, as if there was some kind of tacit agreement between them. Which only added to their aura of danger and mystery.

Since Denisov had broken from the Russian Navy, he’d become infamous as a mercenary willing to do almost anything for the right price. Which is exactly why she needed him. He was her only hope.

Not for fun.

Not for fun, she said. Finding him had not been easy, taking valuable time following leads through criminal networks—a world she knew very little about, but had needed to learn to navigate quickly. Fear and urgency had been her constant companions then, just as they were now. Her heart fluttered in her throat, and her palms were damp.

He affected a sigh, then kicked a chair toward her. As you like. But if you change your mind … His grin was all scoundrel. All the stories you’ve heard about Man O’ Wars are true.

As she took her seat, she could only speculate about the content of those stories. She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t heard them.

One thing she now knew for certain: Denisov was not wearing a shirt beneath his coat, only a buckled waistcoat. The deep V-neck of the waistcoat revealed precisely delineated pectoral muscles, sprinkled with dark hair. As Denisov shifted slightly, light from the flickering gas lamp gleamed on a metallic surface on his chest. His telumium implants.

Go ahead and look. His wry voice punctured her thoughts. Pulling aside the edge of his waistcoat, he revealed more of the implants.

She was a scholar, so she felt no compunction about studying them. Somehow, the metal had been grafted to his skin, covering his left pectoral. It looked as though it continued up onto his shoulder, as well. The telumium had been shaped so that it appeared part of his body, taking on the form of his muscles. Having done some research on Man O’ Wars, she knew that there were telumium filaments leading from the implants to his heart, which created the process by which he powered an airship. Yet she was an anthropologist, not an engineer, and the whys and wherefores of the process remained arcane.

Does it hurt? she asked.

He frowned, as though the question caught him by surprise, and tugged his waistcoat back into place. Not anymore.

She flattened her disappointment that she couldn’t study his implants further. All that truly mattered was that Denisov had an airship, not how he could power it.

Mister Denisov—

"Captain Denisov."

Captain, she began again. Are you familiar with the current situation in the Arabian Peninsula?

As familiar as I need to be. He took a deep drink from his cup, and she tried not to watch the tendons in his neck as he swallowed. Telumium was discovered there a few months ago.

A very rich source, she confirmed. Which means that the war has spread as nations vie for the telumium deposit. The allied English and Italians want it, and the Hapsburg-Russian alliance wants it. The entire region has destabilized as a result. Any remnants of the fragile peace between local tribes has been utterly shattered.

One of the men sitting with Denisov snorted derisively. So?

She glared at him. "So—my parents are archaeologists in the Arabian Peninsula. They were working on a dig when the telumium was discovered and everything went to hell. Turning her gaze to Denisov, she said, My parents have been kidnapped. A warlord by the name of Haroun ibn Jalal al-Rahim has imprisoned them."

Denisov whistled lowly. Heard of al-Rahim. A ruthless bastard, that one.

A cold spike of fear jammed into her chest, but she forced herself to ignore it. Nothing could be gained by panicking. The only way she could see this through was to remain calm and in control at all times.

He took my parents and the local people working with them on the dig, she continued, despite the fact that they were intruding on no one’s territory.

How’d you find out about this?

Al-Rahim sent a package to me in Florence. She swallowed hard, remembering the terror that chilled her as she’d unwrapped the paper and read the accompanying letter. It contained my mother’s wedding band and my father’s prized knife. My mother gave it to him as an anniversary gift. They’d never willingly part with either of those things. So I knew al-Rahim’s claims were true. I went straight to the British Embassy in Rome, asking for help.

And they were no help at all, Denisov said.

Her hands curled into fists with remembered anger. "The political situation is too tenuous. That’s what they told me. It could cause further imbalance in the region."

Meaning, Denisov said with a smirk, they were looking after their own arses.

The bloody telumium, too. She didn’t care if her language was becoming coarse. The more she thought about how the British government, her government and the government of her parents, put its own financial and political interests ahead of the well-being of its citizens, the more infuriated she became.

Telumium was extremely rare, and an essential component in the creation of Man O’ Wars. Having Man O’ Wars meant a nation could have airships, which expanded their political and economic reach. Europe had been torn apart as countries allied with and vied against one another in the ongoing search for telumium. To Daphne, it seemed a ridiculous cycle. Going to war in order to give a country the resources to perpetuate war.

She never cared for politics. Her only interest was anthropology, studying the cultures of the world before they vanished beneath the grinding wheels of modernity. Yet now she cared about politics. Deeply.

There’s nothing for it, she said, her words hardening. I have to try to free my parents on my own.

As she spoke, Denisov straightened, and his wry expression grew more serious. Though he was sitting, she still felt herself intimidated by his size. Motorized bicycle races could be held on his shoulders.

She pressed on. "The only way for me to reach my parents is via airship. Your airship."

The glint in his eyes vanished. No.

But—

The answer is no. Abruptly, he stood.

Oh, Lord, he was so … big. She had to tip her head back to look up at him, looming like an omen. An ether pistol was strapped to his thigh. She thought of the revolver in her handbag, and how tiny it seemed in comparison. Did ordinary bullets affect Man O’ Wars? She wished she’d researched that topic more thoroughly before coming here tonight.

The men sitting beside Denisov scrambled out of the way as he stalked from the table. Leaving Daphne alone.

Was that it? One word from the Man O’ War and her mission was over before it had truly begun?

She jumped to her feet and hurried after him. Given that he cleared a path through the tavern—people scuttling out of his way—she followed in his wake. Before he could reach the door, she jumped in front of him. Thank goodness he stopped walking, or else he would have rolled right over her like a tetrol-powered plow. Thank goodness, too, that she was desperate, or else the glower he gave her might have sent her scurrying for cover behind the bar.

Captain Denisov, please—

Smuggling contraband Chinese automatons into the Kingdom of Brazil, he growled. "Liberating treasure from lead-lined vaults on behalf of wealthy clients. Those are the sorts of jobs I take on. Not some miniscule errand."

"There is nothing miniscule about saving my parents’ lives," she shot back.

He crossed his arms over his chest, the substantial muscles of his biceps knotting. "Profit motivates me, zaika. Nothing else."

You’d be compensated for your efforts.

Not enough to make it worth my while. Since I’ve gone rogue, I stay well away from political pandemonium like the one in Arabia.

As a rogue, doesn’t that mean you aren’t affiliated with any government? You have freedom to go where others cannot.

The Russian Imperial Aerial Navy considers me a traitor against the tsar, he countered. "A thief, too, for stealing the Bielyi Voron. Any Russian Man O’ War who finds and captures me is assured glory. They’ll certainly be in Arabia, which means I won’t be going there."

He set one massive hand on her shoulder. Though she wore a thick twill jacket, a cotton blouse, and chemise, his touch burned right through all her garments, as if he placed his hand upon her bare skin. Her heartbeat stuttered.

His brows lowered, as though this simple touch affected him just as strongly. With his hand still on her shoulder, he guided her out of his path, like a lion nudging aside a cub. He took his hand away, yet she noticed how he rubbed his fingers together afterward—either remembering or erasing the feel of her.

Find someone else to help you, he said.

She blurted, "Come with me back to my pensione."

That teasing smile was back in place. "Changed your mind about the fun, zaika? Man O’ Wars have a great deal of stamina."

Just … come with me. She turned and hurried outside before her cheeks went up in flames. The salty night air did little to calm her or cool her face, but she took several deep breaths, steadying herself. A moment passed as she stood alone in the street. Then she heard Denisov’s heavy steps on the pavement behind her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

She walked toward her pensione, passing sailors and peddlers and men in front of tatty velvet curtains, hawking the latest in mechanized pleasure. She ignored the catcalls and exhortations thrown her way, her mind focused only on Denisov as he followed her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed him moving through the gaslight and shadows, trailing after her with deliberate intent. He kept a distance between them, as though purposefully preserving the illusion that she led the chase. If he had wanted to, he could have caught up with her in a few strides. But the space between them only heightened the sense that he toyed with her.

The pensione was a tottering three-story building, paint and plaster chipping from its façade. There were finer places to stay in Palermo along the more genteel stretch of waterfront, grand hotels with jeweled mechanical peacocks strutting through their vast gardens, but she hadn’t the funds for them. Briefly, she wondered if she ought to have taken a room there, to better indicate to Denisov that she had more than enough money. Too late now.

She took her key from the smirking signora at the desk. The woman’s smirk faltered when she caught sight of Denisov striding through the doorway. Daphne felt the heat of him as he stood behind her. The signora glanced back and forth between Daphne and the Man O’ War, and new respect gleamed in her eyes.

Daphne ignored the rattling, steam-powered elevator—it would be impossible to squeeze both herself and Denisov into that narrow metal box—and climbed the three flights of stairs to her room. As she unlocked her door, she caught the unmistakable sounds of a couple enjoying themselves in the room across the hall.

Denisov’s chuckle rippled over her as she fumbled with her key. The door finally swung open. She stepped inside and switched on the gaslights.

He shut the door behind them. They were alone together.

Turning to face him, her heart beat faster than it had from the three-story climb. Her room was far from lavish, just big enough to contain a rickety table, a lamp, a dresser with a mirror hanging over it, and a bed. Denisov filled the chamber, not merely with his size, but his presence. With his hair, his coat, his very essence, he seemed a creature from the depths of dreams.

"I’m glad you changed your mind, lapochka. His smile was unalloyed wickedness as he stepped closer. He ran one finger along the side of her neck, sending electrical sparks through her. I admit, you’re not my usual sort, but then, I doubt I’m your typical choice."

"That’s not …