Steel Dominance Read online

  The Steamwork Chronicles 3:

  STEEL DOMINANCE

  Cari Silverwood

  www.loose-id.com

  The Steamwork Chronicles 3: Steel Dominance

  Copyright © January 2013 by Cari Silverwood

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 9781623001018

  Editor: Crystal Esau

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 809

  San Francisco CA 94104-0809

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  Once again I owe a great debt of gratitude to many people. Firstly, a thank-you to my wonderful beta readers, MJ, Bianca Sarble, and Sorcha Black.

  Leia Shaw stuck by me as my crit partner for six or seven months while I assembled the big jigsaw that is Steel Dominance.

  Both Nerine Dorman and Candace Blevins gave me impromptu and very helpful beta reads of the completed book.

  And Cherise Sinclair came through like a cleansing storm after I thought I had everything perfect and shone her light in the dark, messy corners.

  Though my fingers tremble whenever I send a book to her, I am in awe of her writing skills.

  Thank you to everyone who helped.

  Chapter One

  Salonika, a coastal city in the Hellene Nation.

  To Dankyo, from six hundred feet up, the fleet of spotlighted ironclads in Salonika’s harbor seemed as imposing as rubber ducks in a bathtub. He turned from his sightseeing and wrapped his fingers about the thick gold rope that ran up to the balloon, bracing himself against the push of the wind. The partygoers on this opulent gondolier airship were getting into the mood of these early New Year celebrations. Eleven o’clock by his pocket watch. The overhead blue and yellow voltaic lights swayed and sent shadows tilting.

  The ambassador from Byzantium had brought his own entertainment. Two slave girls rose gracefully from their kneeling position at the clap of his hands. Both were veiled beneath their eyes by fine silver mesh. The other guests, in their suits and flamboyant gowns, moved to the edges of the gondolier.

  One of the side effects of being an expert advisor for the Hellene government was receiving invitations to soirees like this. So long as he didn’t have to talk, this was pleasant.

  Dankyo settled his back against the padded timber. The farthest slave with the short brunette hair reminded him of Kirsten. He snagged a glass of wine off the tray of a passing waiter. Sadness wasn’t him. Neither of them had suited the other. After a few weeks of Kirsten’s craziness, he’d wanted to throw someone off a cliff. The woman had been all into appearances and boasting to her friends as if he was some sort of prize. And too clingy. If there was a woman out there for him, leastways he now knew it wasn’t the fun, dizzy type.

  He hoped that one day Kirsten would find a man who could match her, but it wasn’t going to be him. Being with her had been like being drowned in a vat of syrup.

  What’s left? The serious, well-grounded sort? Someone who won’t scare too easily? Someone I can tease off their pedestal? Or drag off. There was no one, never had been. Yet for a heart-stopping moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw a woman’s lust-darkened eyes looking up at him. God. Yes.

  It took a few seconds for the thud of his pulse to settle.

  Sipping the tangy Riesling, he watched the second slave undulate to the wavering music of the sitar. A black braid of hair hung to her waist, swaying and whipping in circles to the music. Even her full breasts moved. The mesh and fine silk of her costume revealed enough of her figure to make him sharpen his gaze. Someone else’s, a slave, but desirable. Her long neck begged a man to set his teeth there.

  Ever since Claire had showed him the possibilities, this new appreciation of women distracted him far too much. Thanks to her, he knew some women craved submission as much as he craved the reverse. So now he could watch her together with his commander, Theodore Kevonis, and envy their love for each other even more than he would have if ignorant. Though some days he still wanted to take Claire out and have her shot by firing squad. Pestiferous woman. They got on well in general, though. After all, she could strip a rifle and put it back together before most of his men could blink.

  Not that he wanted a woman like that in his bed.

  Dankyo swallowed more wine while admiring the dancing slaves. Damn life for setting him these challenges. Having an itch he couldn’t figure out how to scratch was irritating. People were best savored at a distance—some of them from an extremely long distance.

  Light boomed, sprinkled, and blazed across the night sky.

  The sitar faltered, and cheers and shouts broke forth from the guests as they turned to see what happened far below. Something burned bright as day and whistled skyward in rainbow colors.

  Fireworks. Dankyo’s well-trained brain didn’t fail him. Early fireworks set off down among the ironclad battleships. A distraction. Why?

  A tiny squeak made him look at the ambassador, who was staggering backward, hand at his chest. A small knife had sprouted there. Blood spread across his white shirt.

  Assassination. No one near the man. The direction of the blade and a glimpse of the raven-haired slave told him where to run. He flung aside the glass and took off from his toes, his good leather shoes bending as he reached for the woman’s arm.

  Their eyes met above the veil. With a miniscule shake of her head, and amusement in her eyes, she spun on her heel and sprinted for the far edge of the gondolier.

  Did she mock him? His fingers closed on air, and he tore after her, barely two steps behind. Disbelieving, he saw her dive for the edge, flip into a somersault, and vanish. His shoes skidded. He grabbed at a rope to stop himself.

  Something dropped with a crack and creak from the belly of the gondolier airship—a black thing, spinning. Then, in the flickering light of explosions and with moonlight painting splashes of silver, he saw wings snap out from the falling object—it slipped sideways, then soared into the night, smooth as an owl on a predatory errand.

  “What in all the heavens,” he whispered. Admiration stung his voice. My God, the woman had stored a collapsible craft on the underside and used it to escape.

  Dankyo contemplated the dark sky and wondered where the pretty killer was headed. Even if he wasn’t on duty, he’d let his guard down while he pondered about women and sex. This death seemed partly his fault. But
enough wallowing in self-doubt. He never dwelled on the past unless he could learn from it.

  Something told him morning would not spell the end of this matter. He was due to return to duties as head of security at House Kevonis, but this would put the cat among the pigeons.

  The young Byzantine ruler, the Emperor-Bey Constantin, would be outraged at the assassination of his ambassador. From what Dankyo had heard, the ambassador had been here in Salonika to beg for aid. The politics of Byzantium were already as twisted as a bowl of spaghetti. Whoever this enemy was of the emperor-bey’s, they had employed a most efficient assassin.

  * * * *

  Byzantium. Capital of the long-besieged Byzantine Empire.

  “Is it done?” the emperor-bey asked, barely glancing at his assassin, Xiang. He strolled the hill-top gardens that evening with a heavy coat of wolf fur about his shoulders. The high and open audience chamber of colonnades and white domed roof had always been a favorite of his.

  The cries of gulls making a last run along the Bosporus river were almost lost in the whine of the winds. He drew the top of the coat closer. If he’d not had this need for secrecy, one of his women might have warmed him.

  Xiang, all fine in her black armor and gray leggings, stepped closer. “Yes, Your Serenity. It is done. He died well enough to attract attention.”

  “Good!” The emperor-bey slapped his palm on the stone balustrade, leaning a forearm on it as he surveyed what lay below. “I have already requested aid from the Brito-Gallics and the Hellene Nation to stop the evil Ottoman attacks. Of course that woman, Sofia White, also has to be quietly requested. You did well there, finding her. If her ideas are right, I can spit in the faces of the Heraklos. Trample on their graves even.” He smiled, staring across the rooftops of the city at the river six hundred feet below.

  “Yes. Her theory of the Clockwork Warrior is intriguing.”

  “Xiang, I can tell when you are scheming. You don’t move. You don’t smile. You’re like a hell-damned statue.”

  He eyed his best guard, his assassin extraordinaire who also happened to have a damn fine brain and body. Not that he’d ever want her in his bed. Slaves were far safer than this snakelike woman who could slice a man to shreds in seconds and then drink tea without putting a digit wrong.

  “Ah.” But now Xiang did move. One eyelid flickered. “I found a man I want.”

  “Oh? To bed?” Well, Xiang had a heart after all, or at least the right parts between her legs. “Who? Why?”

  “His name is Dankyo. I want him here so I can decide whether to kill him or not. May I?”

  “Of course. You may. So long as it does not interfere with this new exploration of the Clockwork Warrior puzzle.”

  “Thank you, Your Serenity.” Xiang bowed her head.

  He inclined his head, smiling.

  To be the one who orchestrated the solution of the ancient puzzle would truly place him among the greatest of rulers. And if that solution led to him acquiring a blueprint for an army of clockwork warriors, all the better. Soon the Ottomans and the Heraklos would tremble at his approach.

  Chapter Two

  Dankyo swiped his hand down his face. Three months since the assassin escaped, a whole file cabinet of political maneuverings later, and here he was…no murderer caught, but the president of the Hellene Nation had requested Dankyo’s help with the Byzantine situation. He adjusted his seat on the suitcase. The incoherent bustle of Salonika’s airfield threatened to explode his brain if he had to stay sitting here any longer.

  The airships either left early or late and the bearers and luggage handlers and ticket office were swamped by buzzing swarms of tourists and other civilians with such urgent needs to travel that they had to shout everything. Screaming children and piddling dogs had taken over the one cafe that was open at six a.m. And he was stuck waiting for another civilian. A woman. Here he was, heading into a war zone, albeit the boring stagnant one at Byzantium, and he had a woman assigned to him. Damnation.

  He took out the envelope and checked the contents again. The papers affirmed his temporary rank of captain, gave him ad hoc permission to own a slave while in Hellene territory, plus detailed his duties. Aid the emperor-bey in tightening his security and unearthing traitors. Protect this civilian Sofia White while she attempted to unravel the mystery of the Tomb of the Clockwork Warrior.

  A smeary-faced child toot tooting like a train across the tiled floor threatened to steam straight into his shiny black shoes. He shifted a suitcase across, then beamed at the befuddled look on the child’s face. Good. A barricade worked. If only he could use cannon on them too.

  The emperor of Byzantium had finagled a lot of aid from the Hellene Nation. And all for what? So we can get a portion of what might come from the tomb? A far-fetched idea that one. More likely the politicians aimed to keep the city out of Ottoman hands.

  A woman caught his eye. Tall and elegant, in faded blue slacks, cream shirt, and long leather coat, she wove a path between the groups of jabbering people and pets. She put a hand on the curly mop of one toddler’s head as if to steady him, did a slip past a melted ice cream, and then spotted Dankyo.

  He kept his gaze on her. Pretty. Forthright green eyes. Wavy walnut-brown hair that touched her shoulder blades and swung fluidly when she turned. He dipped his head slightly, and she set course for where he waited in his fortress of baggage.

  * * * *

  In all that’s holy. This one’s big. Sofia’s first thoughts made her smile. She compressed her lips to hide her amusement.

  Since he blatantly studied her, she did the same as she approached. The kids and the scattered litter she had to dodge made pretending not to study him easier. Smart, sexy, and Asian. This had to be him—Dankyo of House Kevonis. He didn’t frown, but disapproval radiated from him. She tightened her hold on the case tucked under her arm.

  He stood slowly, brushed off his tan trousers, and straightened the buttons, one by one, on his white shirt.

  Her long stride made the distance close fast.

  Rumors said he could be a ruthless bastard. But she could be a ruthless bitch. The struggle for university grants had taught her how important it was to pretend to be friends with your enemies. But, in the face of such an intimidating man, her certainty faltered. Stop this. I will not doubt myself.

  Maybe if she kept practicing being ruthless, one day she’d believe her own press.

  The man’s a little taller, maybe. Brawn does not beat brains. I can handle him.

  “Hello. You must be Dankyo of House Kevonis?” She grinned and held out her hand. Her contralto voice came out warm. Perfect.

  “Yes. Good morning.” As if he’d not already seen every inch of her, he examined her top to bottom and back up again. “Sofia White?”

  She lowered her arm. Like that, huh? “Of course.” Who the hell else would I be?

  “Your clothes are inappropriate.”

  “What?”

  “For a slave. You’ll have to change your attire.”

  Was he trying to upset her? She bit out her words in a sweet voice. “I’m not a slave. I’m pretending. Once we reach Byzantium…”

  “You will obey, or I am not taking you.”

  “What? You can’t do that! You’re supposed to be helping me.”

  His eyes narrowed the slightest before he steamrolled onward. “Let’s be clear from the start. Two-minute explanation. If I’m in charge of your safety, you will follow my directions. Your clothes are inappropriate. Now. Here. Not just in Byzantium.

  “We are going to a city that has centuries of slavery ingrained in its system and spying is like milk to a baby to them. There will be someone assigned to watch us there.” He swept his hand in a small arc. “It is possible there is someone here. Slaves do not question. They wear far less”—he tweaked an eyebrow upward for a fraction of a second—“clothes. You need to be a slave to access the harem where the tomb lies, fine. To their eyes, you must be, not pretend. Emperor-Bey Constantin’s enemies will de
stroy him if they guess what you are truly doing. Mistakes may kill.”

  She opened her mouth, sure from the burn on her cheeks that she was blushing furiously. “Look—”

  “Here.” He held out a small paper-wrapped package. “I checked your luggage that you sent here and saw the deficiency. These are your clothes.”

  At the last second, she remembered, there may be watchers, and lowered her voice to a furious whisper. “You checked my luggage! How dare you. How—” The anger closed her throat down, and she shook her head vigorously.

  “Yes. I did. It was my job to do so. I seek out weak points. If you’re an enemy, I use them to take you down. If a friend, I fix things. Do you want to come to Byzantium, or not?”

  “I…” She wound down. Keep yelling at him sotto voce—a behavior she hated in others—or shut up and take her medicine because this was what she wanted?

  The implacable set of his face reinforced his words. Or I am not taking you with me. She had to go. This was the chance of a lifetime. Giving up this close to success was not an option. All the angry, argumentative words avalanched up in the back of her throat, dying to be said. Could this be as dangerous as he said?

  To their eyes you must be, not pretend. She’d be okay in her own rooms or even in the emperor-bey’s harem while she studied the tomb. This was temporary.

  Damn. I can see the logic, to a degree, though spies watching us here seems crazy. Damn. Medicine-taking time. This was going to taste bad.

  “Very well.” She sniffed, then took the bundle from him. “Thank you. A porter should be bringing another small case. The contents are important to my work. Send it on to the airship, please.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll go get changed.”

  “Do that. In Byzantium, you’d be doing this in front of me.”

  Oh sure. Not in a million years. Now he smiled? Bastard.

  In the ladies’ room, she found a spare cubicle and took out the clothes. Little red silk bandeau top, matching panties, as well as a flowing dress-like top, and pants that cinched in at the ankles, and were as see-through as a mist of rain. Teensy diamantes glinted from the fabric. Plus there was a pair of red shoes like ballet flats, and a black leather collar.