Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

“Robert,” she whispered—it came out like a sob, squeezed from her tight throat. Good God. Stanton Howard hadn’t just been pretending to be her brother. He was her brother.

Her brother stared at her. “Not any more. Robert Brooks died in an explosion caused by Stanton Howard. Soon Stanton Howard will disappear as well.”

“Why?” It was the only thought to pierce the clamor in her mind as she moved toward him, still not quite believing her eyes. The hand holding the pistol trembled, but she didn’t lower it completely. Her mind didn’t completely trust what her eyes had just seen.

He smiled. “Because I was tired of being someone’s puppet. I want to be the one pulling the strings.”

“But . . . you didn’t tell me.”

“Of course I didn’t.” He made a face indicating he thought she was stupid to think otherwise. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I really didn’t think you’d come looking for revenge.”

“How could you not know I’d want to avenge you?”

He looked almost sympathetic through his pain. “We haven’t spoken in what, six months? It’s not as though we’ve been close these last few years. Honestly, Sis, I don’t think I would have done this for you.”

His words cut her to the bone. “I betrayed my agency for you. I resigned myself to dying to avenge you. For nothing.”

There must have been something in her tone or in her face, because he gave her a loving glance—one that came far too easily. “I couldn’t tell you, Claire-a-bell. It was too dangerous.”

He had always been the better actor of the two of them. It took this to make her realize just how much of a willing audience she had been. If not for her chasing Stanton Howard, he never would have revealed to her that he still lived. He would have let her go on thinking he was dead. He wouldn’t have cared.

“You shot me,” she said. It was an idiotic statement given the scope of his crimes, but it encapsulated so much of how she felt.

“You shot me!” He lifted his injured leg. “Twice!”

“I didn’t know it was you! You knew when you pulled the trigger just who you were aiming at.”

“Why do you think you’re still alive? Anyone else and you would have died that night.” His expression softened. “But now that you know, you can join me. We can be a team again.”

“Join you? And what, run away, change my face and my name and become your puppet? No, Robert.” He didn’t mean it anyway. He was just playing her, as she imagined he’d always played her.

Robert’s jaw tightened. No wonder “Howard” had reminded her of her father. Why had she never realized that Robert had grown up to be an even bigger monster? There was no warmth of feeling in him at all. Perhaps their father was to blame for some of that, the Company for a share as well, but her brother was rotten to the core, and she hadn’t seen it. This was the cruelest joke of all.

“I can’t have you telling my secret, Claire.”

She didn’t quite hear him. “The way you killed that poor Russian . . .”

He lunged suddenly—so fast she couldn’t react—and snatched the pistol from her hand. He turned his arm and torso. “Will be nothing compared to the way I’m going to kill your lover.”

Claire’s gaze followed the length of his arm. Her heart leaped at the sight of Alastair. How long had he been standing there? His rugged face was void of expression, and his attention was focused on Robert. “You can’t run, Brooks.”

Robert chuckled. “Of course I can. You think I didn’t notice that lovely little submersible attached to the ship. I assume it’s yours? I’ll take that—and my sister.”

“You won’t get very far.” Aver fas if on cue, the bright light of a dirigible washed over the deck, the soft engines whirring high above them. Beneath that was the sound of smaller craft—sparrows, as they were called, tiny personal flying machines that were used for landing in tight spots or flanking an enemy. They looked like big fireflies, Claire thought.

“They’ll be so busy trying to save you, they won’t worry about me.” Robert grinned. “You lose.”

He pulled the trigger.

The blast caught Alastair in the chest, knocking him off his feet and into the wall behind him. For a second, his entire torso seemed to be engulfed in flame—which died just as quickly as it flared.

Claire didn’t think; she just moved. She pulled her fan from her reticule and tossed the ridiculous bag aside. As she lunged, she flicked her wrist, opening the fan with a sharp “snick”. Robert pivoted, the smile draining from his face as he spotted her. He whipped his arm around to shoot her, but she lashed out before he could fire—the pistol hadn’t quite recharged. The gregorite razors of her fan sliced through his wrist as though it were no more substantial than butter.

Hot blood struck the side of her face. Her brother grasped at his arm and fell screaming to the deck. Claire grabbed the pistol from where it had slid as two sparrows landed on the deck, the wind from their blades stirring up the cool air. The sounds of excited voices filled the night, coming from passengers, curious and excited; from W.O.R. agents arriving on the scene; and from her brother’s screams. Claire ignored them all—even the ones yelling at her—and ran to Alastair’s side.

“Alastair?” She fell to her knees. He was so still. “Alastair?”

He was breathing. He was alive, thank God.

“You bitch!” She turned to see her brother coming at her. He’d somehow managed to incapacitate a Warden and steal the woman’s weapon. He ran toward her, slipping in his own blood as it poured down his front from the stump of his wrist and limping from the burn on his leg.

He could kill her if he wanted, but he was not going to touch Alastair. Not again. She raised the pistol, aimed and fired. By some manner of grace she managed to shoot him in the hand holding the weapon. He collapsed to the deck, whimpering. If he’d screamed one more time, she would have gone for his throat.

The next few minutes unfolded terribly fast. Wardens claimed her brother as more came for her. They seized her by the arms and pulled her to her feet.

“I can’t leave him!” she cried. “You have to help him.”

“We’ll look after Lord Wolfred, ma’am,” one of the male agents informed her, “but now you have to come with us.”

She didn’t fight them—it would do her no good, and only prevent as many agents as possible helping Alastair. She kept her gaze focused on him as they dragged her away, toward one of the sparrows.

They took her weapons and strapped her into the small backseat of the largest of the sparrow ships—most weren’t designed to caridthry more than one rider. Buckles and straps secured a volans canopy to her person. The canopy was a dome of silk that would deploy should she fall from the flier or should there be some sort of malfunction that resulted in falling from a great height, and carry her safely to the ground, or in this case, the ocean. The pilot had a folding metal partition behind her head to prevent Claire from attacking her, and to save Claire from being restrained. These safety measures had been implemented by many agencies after both agents and prisoners had died as the result of aircraft-related incidents.

The same agent who buckled her in draped a blanket over her to keep her from getting chilled.

She watched over the side of the small craft as it lifted off the deck, its whirling blades blocking out almost any other sound. Agents surrounded her brother and Alastair. She didn’t want her brother to die, but he was not her concern—Alastair was. How much of her conversation with Robert had he heard? Would he live? And if so, would she ever see him again?