Burning Up

Only twenty minutes passed before Leveque stood and moved to the door. She looked at him wonderingly, and when he pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and waved it, she understood: the other ship had surrendered.

He unlocked the door and, with a bow, gestured her through ahead of him.

On the main gun deck, the men hadn’t stood down from their positions, though they’d obviously relaxed. Several wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their scarves. Others laughed and talked quietly. Ivy climbed the ladder to the upper deck, emerging amidst a cluster of Mad Machen’s men armed with pistols and swords. Their eyes were trained starboard, and Ivy followed the path of their gaze. Her stomach lurched.

Mad Machen stood at the rail, holding a man by his neck over the side. His face purpled, the man struggled for air, clutching at Mad Machen’s wrist. His ship floated fifteen feet from Vesuvius’s side, grapplings and gangways stretching across the distance. That single cannon shot must have destroyed the inflatable, sending the stern crashing back to the surface. Both the mizzenmast and main had broken, the heavy timbers fallen aft, sails and lines trailing in the water behind the ship. At least a hundred men had been gathered on the decks—the ship’s crew, Ivy realized.

Mad Machen’s deep voice was loud enough to carry to the other ship, and full of deadly threat. “I ask you a final time, Captain. Which of these men is your employer?”

When the captain waved his hand, Mad Machen brought him in. Falling to his knees on the deck, the mercenary gasped for air and wheezed, “The . . . hold. With . . . the cargo.”

Mad Machen’s face darkened, and for an instant, Ivy thought he would kill the man. But he turned away from him, calling out, “Mr. Areyto, lead your men across and secure the hold. All men with bugs remain on Vesuvius until she’s clear.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Eyes wide, Ivy watched the master-at-arms step onto the gangway while half of his men lined the rail with weapons aimed toward the other deck. Why only those who weren’t infected? They weren’t as strong, wouldn’t heal as quickly.

A sudden murmur ran through the men surrounding her. Mad Machen shouted, “Hold! Return, Mr. Areyto.”

Ivy strained to see what had caught their attention. But there were only the men standing on the other deck, unmoving . . . some of them unnaturally rigid. The ship lifted on a swell. Several men toppled over, as if they were stiff boards caught in a wind.

As if their bugs had been frozen.

Horror crawled up from her belly. Ivy stifled her whimper, trying to push away the memory of lying in her bed, of hands prodding at her body.

On the other ship, a man slowly climbed up onto the deck. Blond and handsome, his skin as tanned as Mad Machen’s, he held a bloody knife in his right hand and a gleaming metal box topped by a spike in his left.

No—not a spike, Ivy realized. A miniature tower. Her gaze flew back to his face, to his pale hair. But this man wasn’t one of the Horde.

He began walking toward the rail, smiling. “Perhaps you will kill me, Captain Machen, but the Black Guard will endure. We will never be defeat—”

A loud crack rent the air. In a burst of red, the man’s forehead exploded. Ivy jolted back into one of the crew, her hands flying up to cover her shriek. The men steadied her.

Mad Machen lowered his pistol and looked aft. “Retrieve the device and shut it down, Mr. Areyto. Mr. Barker, call for the surgeon—” He broke off as his gaze met Ivy’s. She stared at him, hands clasped over her mouth. With a rough note in his voice, he continued, “And ask him to meet me in the hold.”

A chorus of Aye, Captain sounded. Ivy stumbled back to the port rail, and was sick over the side.

When the last person had been unchained and led—or carried—out of the hold, Eben returned topside. He glanced across the water at Vesuvius’s decks. He wasn’t surprised to see that some of the men and women the Black Guard had meant to sell as slaves had remained above decks, lifting their faces to the sun. He wasn’t surprised that Ivy had gone.

It didn’t matter. He could still see her. Her white face and the horror in her eyes were etched in his memory—as was her rush to vomit over the side.

Why the bloody hell did she have to come above decks then?

He found the ship’s captain on the quarterdeck. The man took one look at Eben’s expression and paled.

Eben felt no pity for him. “Order your men to lower the launches. You have ten minutes to abandon ship. Make certain that you, Captain, are the last one into the boats, or my master-at-arms will shoot you off the ladder.”

The captain’s face flushed. Forgetting his fear, he sputtered with indignation. Eben cut him off.

“Ten minutes.” He turned toward the rail. His crew had already hauled all but one gangway back to Vesuvius. “I suggest you pull hard for shore. Word is, a kraken hunts these waters.”

He crossed over to Vesuvius. Barker met him at the rail. Quietly, the quartermaster said, “The bastard gutted more than a few. The bugs are slowing the bleeding, but Jannsen says he needs more hands or he’ll lose half of them.”

The surgeon had too much experience with the Black Guard’s last-minute vengeance to be mistaken. Eben nodded and started toward the ladder.

Barker called after him, “And the ship, sir?”

“Ten minutes.” Eben began rolling up his sleeves. “Then blow her out of the water.”

SEVEN

Mad Machen’s crew had done this before. Those who weren’t still manning the starboard cannons rushed about the lower deck, clearing space for more than fifty newcomers. Pallets went down for those too weak or with too many prosthetics for a hammock. Boys distributed clear broth, holding the cup for those who needed it. Ivy commandeered linens and hot water, and started in cleaning wounds and repairing damaged prosthetics—broken so that they couldn’t use the tools to escape the chains—and listening to their stories.

Most had come from London slums: areas of Southwark, usually, but Ivy wasn’t surprised to hear a few name Limehouse, which included the Blacksmith’s territory. From London, they’d been smuggled west and held until the ship had come, then loaded aboard at night.

But they hadn’t all been taken from London. And although the others spoke in accents too heavy for Ivy to decipher, their pulverizing hammers, drills, and shovels told her just as well—they were all coal miners, likely taken from the colliers in Wales. The Horde had gone, but the men still needed to work, and they’d kept the equipment grafted to their bodies. That same equipment made them more valuable to the New World slavers.

But not all of them would have been laborers; some had been headed for the skin-trade. And looking at the emaciated women and boys, Ivy understood that she hadn’t been too skinny for them to take, as she’d always thought: her guild tattoo had kept her safe. Even the Black Guard, whoever they were, knew better than to cross the Blacksmith.

But the Black Guard must have angered him . . . because the Blacksmith was helping Eben build a monster designed to frighten and destroy them.

And bless the bright stars—so was Ivy.

Midnight had long passed before Eben finally left sick bay. For the first time, he hoped that Ivy had already fallen asleep. Everything inside him was scraped raw. He couldn’t bear it if she looked at him in fear and horror again.

The sliver of yellow light beneath his cabin door dashed his hope. He girded his heart before entering.

He expected to find her by the gallery windows, but she sat in her nightgown at the dining table, frowning