He pounded on the door, his fury and fear rising in tandem. “Emmeline! Open this door!” Jump Wings were military grade, hard to maneuver, and specifically fitted to an individual. She couldn’t simply throw on a pair of wings and jump out of a passenger airship.
She wouldn’t.
His heart lodged in his throat.
She would. Of course she would.
He backed up a step and kicked the door hard, satisfied when the hinges gave away enough that he could shove the door open a few more inches. An alarmingly cold blast of air hit his face, and he realized his worst fears were coming to fruition. She was going to jump from the airship. If she hadn’t already.
He shoved with strength borne from fear and dislodged the pole she’d wedged against the door. The room contained rope, tools, and sundry supplies anchored to the walls, and an area that should have held enough tightly folded, compact parachutes for each passenger aboard. Those shelves were empty—Barclay hadn’t lied—but in three specialized compartments were black Jump Wings. The fourth compartment was empty and missing its set of wings.
He rushed to the open door. The world was dark, and he shined the feeble light from his Tesla torch down toward the earth, catching the faintest glint of shiny black Jump Wings as they spiraled down. She was falling fast, much too fast, and he shouted helplessly at her, heart pounding out of his chest. He turned back toward the remaining Jump Wings, shrugged into a set, and fastened its buckles across his chest, abdomen, and around each arm as quickly as he could.
Shouts sounded from out in the hall, and he slammed the ruined door closed before going back to the exit, searching desperately in the black night for a sign of Emme. Feeling faint, desperate, and terrified on every possible level, he rolled from the aircraft, found his bearings in the free fall, and threw open the wings with a loud snap as the segments opened and slid into place.
He’d Wing Jumped enough to be familiar with the process, had even done training exercises with his men at night, but they’d known what they were jumping into. The terrain below was a dark mass of nothingness.
Emme.
He kept searching the area below, confident in his abilities to slow and guide his descent but knowing she was completely, literally untrained. He pulled the wings in and angled for a forward dive, increasing his speed in hopes of catching up to her. He had a rough idea of how far from the ground they’d been flying and adjusted accordingly, counting off several seconds before fully opening the wings again to slow his rapid fall.
Over his shoulder, the moon mercifully inched from behind a cloud, throwing a silver glow to the ground. He noted several things simultaneously. The first was that they were out over the water. The second was the beach; he adjusted the wings to aim for it. The third was Emme, who, to his immense relief, had managed the wings well enough to slow her descent and was also shifting toward the sand and rocks at the water’s edge.
His eyes streamed against the cold wind—they’d not had time to don goggles or proper head gear or gloves—and he squinted, keeping Emme in sight. She pulled on the wings and angled her body toward solid ground. He maintained position directly over her, torn between grim satisfaction that she seemed to be maneuvering the wings, and increasing worry at her erratic movement.
Her wings tipped from one side to the other, violently, and he knew her arms would be straining against the heavy contraption. She was dangerously off-balance, and he couldn’t divine the reason as the winds were steady with relatively little gusting. He saw a dark shape fall as though she’d dropped something, and he realized it was her portmanteau. As he executed a tight spiral and dove again to pick up speed, he saw the luggage hit the rocky beach.
Emme was clear of the water, but his heart lodged in his throat as he watched her try to steady the wings and unfurl them to their fullest as she pulled against the wind and angled her body to make contact feetfirst.
He’d never felt so helpless. He circled and dove, snapping his own wings open wide and pulling so hard his shoulders and chest ached, wondering if he would reach her only to witness her death. At the least, she could have broken bones, untold injuries. And he had no idea where they were.
She finally hit the ground, and he clenched his jaw at her involuntary cry of pain. Cursing and praying simultaneously, he made the rest of his own rapid descent, pulled hard against a gust of wind, and landed thirty feet from her.
His arms and legs were leaden as he fumbled with the fastenings. His fingers were cold and numb, and he stumbled forward across the rocky shoreline, wings dragging and scraping, until he finally released the buckles. He fell to one knee and picked himself up again. He couldn’t reach her quickly enough, couldn’t help her, couldn’t save her . . . His breath came in harsh, desperate gasps, and his lungs burned.
“Emme!” He skidded the last several feet, finally scrambling on hands and knees to her side. She was sitting up, gasping for breath, unable to pull her wrists free of the contraption and unfasten the bindings.
He lunged at her, pulling at the fastenings, his words a hoarse torrent of frustration and bone-deep fear. He knew in the
