Burning Up

top, he opened the first door on the left, revealing a dimly lit parlor.
    Though midnight had passed several hours before, Mad Machen wasn’t in bed, as Ivy had expected. He sat in a low chair, a snifter in hand and his long legs stretched out in front of him, knee-high boots crossed at the ankles. He’d unbuckled his jacket. His pale shirt opened at the neck, exposing deeply tanned skin and the puckered white scar at his throat.
    He froze with the snifter halfway to his mouth when she entered the room. His gaze swept over her, taking her in, pausing on the makeshift satchel in her hand. Slowly, his gaze rose to her face. Dark eyes locked on hers, he stood.
    “Ivy,” he said, in a voice deeper and rougher than she remembered. She realized he’d never spoken her name before.
    And she expected him to grant her a favor?
    Her nervousness came crashing back. Fingers twisting in the satchel, she glanced around the room. Mad Machen wasn’t alone. On an armchair to her right, a woman with an angular face watched her with narrowed, cat-green eyes. A sapphire kerchief wrapped back from her forehead and tied at her nape, the blue tails tangled in the long black curls and tiny braids. Her short aviator’s jacket buckled to her throat, and her hand hovered near the dagger hilt sheathed at the top of her brown, thigh-high boots.
    To Ivy’s left, Barker lay on a green sofa, bushy black hair falling back from his forehead. He hadn’t bothered with a glass, but was drinking a deep amber liquid straight from the bottle. His boots and stockings were off, and he held his feet together as if examining them, pale gray against brown. He rolled his head to the side and looked at her when Mad Machen said her name.
    “Ivy!” A smile broadened his mouth as he rocked up to sitting—and sat, swaying. With some effort, he focused on her again. “You’ve come all the way to the docks in this soup?”
    “Yes.” Her pulse racing, she looked at Mad Machen. His gaze hadn’t strayed from her face. “At the Blacksmith’s, you said that you’d planned to weigh anchor tomorrow morning. I wondered . . . I hoped that you would allow me passage on your ship.”
    His brows lowered, and the small movement seemed to darken every feature. “To where?”
    “Anywhere.” She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Just away. “The first city you put in to port.”
    He didn’t immediately answer, and she became aware of Barker, no longer smiling. A grim expression had settled on his open face. In the opposite seat, the woman stared at Mad Machen, the gold hoops in her ears swinging with the tiny shake of her head.
    Mad Machen either didn’t notice them or disregarded them. He strode across the room, stopping only an arm’s length away. Ivy had to lift her chin to meet his eyes.
    “ Vesuvius has no comfortable quarters. She isn’t a passenger ship.”
    “I know. But I can’t afford passage on a—” She broke off when his face darkened further. Hurriedly, she assured him, “I’ll work. I can repair engines, prosthetics . . . or windups, if you have any automata. I can build anything you need.”
    “I already have a blacksmith onboard.”
    Panic began to take hold. She looked past Mad Machen to the woman, then Barker. “Do you know of any ship that needs one? A ship that departs soon? I won’t ask for a wage—only for board. Please.”
    Closing his eyes, Barker shook his head. The woman didn’t respond, only stared back at Ivy, her gaze cold and assessing.
    In the quiet, Ivy’s heart thundered in her ears. Smithing was her only trade. She owned nothing of value but her skill.
    Nothing but her body.
    Sickness roiled in her stomach, tasted sour on her tongue. She’d avoided this route for so long, but perhaps it always came to this. Feeling dull and worn, she lifted her gaze to Mad Machen’s.
    “I’m a virgin,” she said.
    His broad chest rose on a sharp breath. A flush swept under his skin, his jaw tightening. Though his companions had been quiet, now they were still and silent—as if waiting.
    His response was a low growl. “ Vesuvius isn’t a slaver ship, either.”
    “I don’t want to be sold. I want to be free when I get off your ship.” She tried to gather dignity and courage. “I’m offering it as payment. Some men prize it.”
    His face continued to darken as she spoke, until the only lightness lay in the whites of his eyes, the tight line around his mouth, the rough scar at his throat. He looked . . . utterly