Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

“Alastair?” It was his mother. “Where are you?”

“Second location,” he replied, choosing to be cryptic because hearing from her again meant something was wrong. “Why?”

“Dr. Stephens and that lovely blond woman just left the party.”

Claire was supposed to have warned Chevalier off. Had the Frenchwoman told Stephens about Claire? Or was Stephens plotting to sell her the plans himself? No, Howard would never have revealed his hiding spot. The most likely scenario was that Stephens had been assigned to “deal” with Chevalier—get the payment from her and then kill her.

He couldn’t let the woman die, but he had to get to Claire.

Jaw set, he took off running down the corridor. Doors whizzed by. His hair blew back from his face, he ran so fast. When he spotted Stephens and Chevalier about to enter another stateroom, he intercepted them. Stephens pulled a pistol from his coat. Chevalier drew back, going for her own weapon.

Alastair struck, using the speed of his own body for momentum, and punched Stephens in the jaw. He had to hold back so as not to kill the man, but he felt the bones of Stephens’s face crack under the force of the blow.

The doctor made a strangled, guttural sound, then fell to the carpet, unconscious.

“W.O.R. agents will be here soon,” he told Chevalier. “They may offer leniency in exchange for information.”

She smiled coyly. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, chéri. I won’t be here when they arrive.”

Alastair really didn’t care one way or another. He nodded at her and then bolted for the nearest deck door. He had to find Claire and Howard.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be too late.

“Miss Clarke , I didn’t expect to see you out here.” If mockery were a sauce, it would have been running down Howard’s chin.

Claire stopped a few feet away from where he leaned against the deck rail. The ship’s lanterns cast him in sinister relief, but she was strangely calm as she faced him. “Of course you did, Howard. I should probably thank you for making it as easy for me as you have.”

“I had hoped our paths might cross again one day.” He flashed an indolent smirk. “You look surprisingly well for someone who was shot and then fell off a building.”

“You don’t look half bad yourself. I assume you had some help with that.”

“Indeed. Very similar to your own treatment, I wager.” He reached into his jacket, and Claire’s hand went to the holster in her bustle, every muscle tensed. . . .

He withdrew a silver cheroot case and opened it. “Care for one?”

When she was younger, Claire occasionally smoked with Robert. She never quite got the appeal of it, but it was a happy memory and she would never besmirch it. “No.”

Howard shrugged. “Suit yourself.” A match struck, flared and lit the tip of the thin cigar as he held it between his teeth. He shook the match until the flame died and flicked it over the rail. He’d even stolen the way her brother flicked his wrist. “So what now? You put a bullet between my eyes? Maybe carve me up with that wicked fan of yours?”

How did he know about her fan? “Maybe. What are you up to, Howard? Why all the deals and double crosses?”

Exhaling a stream of smoke, the spy laughed. It was Robert’s laughter—the bastard. “You don’t really think I’m just going to confess to you, do you? Good lord, woman, have you lost your wits? Here’s what I’d like to know—when did you start fucking Wardens? I could forgive you Huntley because you didn’t know, but that ginger Reynard? Have you no pride?”

He sounded sincerely perplexed—and angry. She hadn’t expected him to confess. She might have to torture him for that. More’s the pity. Claire kept her fingers curled around the handle of her pistol beneath the bustle of her gown. “What is it to you?

He shrugged. “Just looking out for you.”

“Don’t. You killed the only man who ever had that responsibility.”

“Did I?” Surely he wasn’t going to play that game with her? “Are you quite certain?”

Claire pulled her pistol free and pointed it at Howard. “I’ve had enough of your games. You killed my brother, and I’m going to make certain you pay for it.”

He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by having a pistol drawn on him, though she thought there was perhaps a pinch of wariness around his eyes. He looked at her as if she were a joke. She’d seen the same look often enough on her father’s face, when he’d hit the bottom of a bottle, before he’d tell her how useless she was or took a swing at Robert.

This wasn’t the first time she’d compared him to her father. She’d never seen him in any enemy before, so what was it about Howard that made her think of him?

“Careful with that thing, Claire-a-bell. You might hurt someone.”

Claire stiffened, her blood turning to ice and freezing her in place. “What did you just call me?”

“Claire-a-bell. That was what your brother called you, wasn’t it?”

She pulled back the hammer, aiming at his right shin. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

A thin stream of fragrant smoke drifted from his lips. “No? Don’t you want to know what happened that night? Wouldn’t you like to know about your brother’s last moments?”

She would. He was toying with her. “You’re just stalling.”

“We’re in the middle of the ocean. What difference will a few minutes make? Or would you rather I spent the time waiting for your fox to arrive telling you all thong fox to arse boring secrets I’ve been collecting?” He smiled coldly as he raised the cheroot. “Come now, I’ll tell you all about the night I killed Robert Brooks.”

She pulled the trigger. In the dark, the aetheric stream looked like a bolt of lightning. Howard screamed as it struck his shin, burning his trouser leg and the flesh beneath, cauterizing its own wound. His cheroot flew over the rail.

Claire braced herself for the smell. “I don’t care how you killed him. I just want to know why.”

“You bitch!” he cried. “You fucking shot me.”

She raised the pistol, this time pointing it at his right shoulder. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

“All of this for Robert Brooks?” Disbelief colored the words he ground between his teeth.

“My brother.”

He started to laugh, leaning hard on the rail. His trouser leg had stopped smoking and it now flapped around the scorched skin of his leg in the breeze. The cold tried to permeate her skin, but rage kept her warm.

“There’s nothing amusing about this situation,” she reminded him.

“Sure there is. You’re out here making barbecue out of me over a useless twat who didn’t even remember your last birthday.”

“He was still my brother.” Now she was the one grinding her teeth. “And how the hell do you know that he missed my birthday?” Why was she listening to any of this? Alastair would be here soon, and it would be so much better if Howard was already dead when he arrived.

He was still chuckling, only now he slid down into the chair bolted to the deck beside him. He reached up and tugged at his hair—it came off in his hand, revealing light brown, slicked-back hair. He pulled off his eyebrows as well—revealing others beneath.

It was the perfect time to kill him, but Claire couldn’t bring herself to pull the trigger. She could only stand there like an idiot as he took thin, gelatin-like lenses from his eyes, removed a false nose and muttonchops, and pulled padding from his mouth along with a set of teeth. All of these things he placed on the length of deck chair beside his wounded leg, until he finally turned to her, his true face revealed.