Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [65]
“Then you probably know to destroy the brain, or take off the head,” Archimedes said. “But there’s more to know.”
He drew his revolver. The other man tensed, but Archimedes was already turning away from him, looking toward the harvester. He tipped the bullets out of the chamber. Picking up one, he flung it at the machine. The bullet struck the top with a faint ping!
“They’re fast,” he said as one burst from the shadows and raced across the clearing, hissing. With matted hair and sunken features, the zombie was too emaciated and filthy to determine gender—or perhaps all indications had been eaten or rotted off.
Many of the aviators recoiled in instinctive repulsion. Bigor didn’t flinch. He raised his hand, stopping his comrade when the other marine aimed his rifle.
“They’ll investigate any noise.” Archimedes threw another bullet. Ping! The zombie was growling now, a rasping, ravenous sound. “And if they encounter a structure, they’ll search for a way in.”
The zombie disappeared around the side. Archimedes waited.
The explosion rocked the harvester back, flipping the shredder’s tail up like a scorpion readying to strike. Metal shrieked. Smoke boiled from the top hatch.
“And that’s all there is to know.” Archimedes clapped the man on the back. “You can go down and look for the Dame and Evans now, Mr. Bigor, but you’d best hurry. I can already hear more of them coming.”
Yasmeen wouldn’t have handled that half as well. Too used to giving orders, she’d have insisted that Guillouet retract the order he’d given the marines, and probably would have ended up shooting someone—or at least throwing punches. She’d never have considered throwing bullets.
She followed Archimedes down the ladder from the main deck, and was halfway to their cabin before she realized that he was furious. He stalked into the small room, throwing his hat and coat over his bunk. Two paces brought him to the washstand. He whipped around, almost paced into her.
Taking a quick step back, she flattened her hand against his solid chest. His heart pounded. His jaw had set like stone, his emerald eyes were bright. Her breath seemed to slip away. Oh, he was magnificent when roused. She could have looked at him for hours, but she settled for the time it took to breathe again.
“You’re an impressive specimen of a man, Mr. Fox,” she finally said.
His gaze narrowed, fell to her lips. The pace of his heart quickened. Then he all but wrecked her when he stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek.
Pleasure streaked through her, the urge to lift into his touch and purr. She contained her shudder, remained still as he covered her hand with his, holding it to his chest. His eyes closed, and she was never more grateful for a moment alone.
She pressed the tips of her fingers to her cheek, steadied herself. He didn’t even know what he’d done to her—and how rarely she felt a sweet touch that asked for absolutely nothing. Swallowing, she said, “You averted that disaster up there perfectly. Of course, Guillouet will hate you now, too.”
“It can’t be helped. He’s a shit captain.” He expelled a hard sigh. “It’s not just that he’s a sailor.”
Perhaps not. There were many reasons that men unsuitable to be captains were put in the position. “Well, I’m beginning to believe I was wrong about why the French cut him from their ranks. It’s not because of ancestry or money at all. He’s a blind ass.”
A smile finally lifted the corners of his handsome mouth. His eyes opened—not angry now, but not amused either. He regarded her thoughtfully. “There are few things my father said that I’ve ever agreed with, but one of them was: There are men who give orders, and men who take them. Captains, they often seem like they give them, but there’s always a superior officer somewhere that he answers to, and an admiral that answers to a king or a parliament, who answer to their people. But a man making his living out here—or a mercenary—answers to no one. So a man fit to be captain in a war might not