Demon Marked

Wolfram is dead,” she said.
    “Yes.” Yasmeen studied the other woman’s expression. She saw resignation. Sadness. But no sudden grief. “You don’t seem surprised.”
    “I was supposed to receive word from him six weeks ago. When I didn’t, I gave him another week. And then another. By the third week, I had to accept that a letter wasn’t coming. So I have had three weeks to adjust myself to the idea.” She sipped from her tea before leveling a direct stare at Yasmeen. “Wolfram isn’t part of your crew. So why have you really come?”
    “He was on my ship. He wasn’t my crew, but he was my responsibility,” she said, marveling at the other woman’s composure. How was it that Yasmeen didn’t feel as steady as his sister looked? She slipped her fingers into her pocket, produced her cigarillo case and lighter. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”
    “Yes,” Zenobia said bluntly. “It reeks.”
    “If you smoke one, too, you won’t notice it as much.” Yasmeen smiled when the other woman only fixed a baleful look on the proffered cigarillo. She slid it back into the silver case. “I have his belongings and his purse—minus the five livre he owed to me for his passage.”
    Five livre was a large sum of money, but Zenobia didn’t blink. “I’ll take them. And the da Vinci sketch?”
    “You’d be a fool to keep it in your possession.”
    “As aptly demonstrated today.”
    Though dryly stated, Yasmeen could see that the other woman knew it was the truth. “Mills will only be the first.”
    “Yes.” Zenobia took another sip before coming to a decision. “Sell it, then.”
    Exultation burst through Yasmeen’s veins. She contained it, and merely nodded. “I will.”
    A tiny smile flirted with the woman’s mouth. “I understand that on dangerous flights, the airship captain receives twenty-five percent of the salvage.”
    Yasmeen met Zenobia’s steady gaze. “For this job, I’ll take fifty percent.”
    Her tone said there’d be no negotiation. Her face must have conveyed the same. Zenobia studied her, as if weighing the chances of coming to a different agreement.
    Finally, she took another sip and said, “I suppose fifty percent of an absurd fortune is still a ridiculous amount of money.”
    Clever woman. This was the Zenobia that Yasmeen had expected to find. She wasn’t disappointed. “I’ll see that you receive your half when the sale is finalized.”
    “Thank you.” She hesitated, and some of the hardness of negotiation dropped from her expression, revealing a hint of vulnerability. “I heard a little bit of what you said about the zombies, captain. Is it true that you deliberately threw him into a canal?”
    So three weeks had given her time to adjust to the idea? Obviously not completely. Yasmeen shook her head. “It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t know where he landed.”
    Lies. Her eyes saw well enough in the dark. She’d watched him splash into the canal. She’d known that with luck and brains, he’d survive—and her crew wouldn’t think she’d gone soft or weak.
    But even for Archimedes Fox, his chances of survival were slim. She wouldn’t give this woman any more false hope than she offered herself.
    “I see.” Zenobia’s fingers tightened on her cup. “If, on your travels, you see him with the others . . .”
    “I’ll shoot him,” Yasmeen promised.
    “Thank you.” The vulnerability left her face, replaced by sudden amusement. “Speaking of your travels, captain . . . you’ve tossed the source of my stories overboard.”
    Yasmeen looked pointedly at the ink staining her fingers. “You’re writing.”
    “Only letters.”
    “You won’t need the income when I’ve sold the sketch.”
    “You misunderstand me.” Zenobia set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t need the income now. I write because I enjoy it. Will you leave your airship when you’ve received your portion of the money?”
    “No.” When she left her lady for the last time, it would only be because her dead body had been dragged away.
    “It is the same with me for writing. I won’t stop, not voluntarily. But I do need inspiration for the stories. With the basis for Archimedes gone, I’ll have to create another character. Perhaps a woman this time.” She sat back, her gaze narrowed on Yasmeen’s face. “What about . . . The Adventures of Lady Lynx ?”
    Yasmeen laughed. Zenobia didn’t.
    “You’re not joking?”
    The other woman shook her head.