Stranger:. Zoe Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ own derringer right back. Two shots only. Maybe she could get her hands on one of the revolvers aimed at her. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

      A sane person would have fled the cabin. But Gemma wasn’t sane. She was a journalist.

      So, instead of running, she confronted three faces ranging in expression from curious to outright hostile. And their guns.

      The culmination of weeks of hard travel. On the trail of a story, she had journeyed all the way from a small trading post in the Canadian Rockies, across the United States, to New York, where she boarded the Antonia. Horseback, stagecoach, train. Clapboard boardinghouses with thin mattresses and thinner walls. Food boiled to inedibility. Groping hands, speculative leers. Rats and dogs.

      She’d faced them all, pressing onward, always a day behind her quarry—but that was deliberate. She couldn’t let them see her. To be seen was to risk being recognized. Maybe she flattered herself to think that any of the people she followed would remember her. After all, she had only seen them twice, and spoken with one member of their party once. Weeks, thousands of miles, had passed since then.

      But there was a strong disadvantage to being a redhead. People with bright copper hair and freckles had a tendency to be remembered—like a flare’s afterimage burned into the eye. Sometimes Gemma used her appearance and gender to her advantage. It always helped a reporter to have an advantage. Other times, her looks and sex were a damned pain in the behind.

      As soon as she learned that her quarry had booked passage on the Antonia, bound for Liverpool, Gemma also reserved a cabin on that same ship. To follow at sea, even a day behind, meant the possibility of losing them. So, for the past week onboard the ship, she’d led a nocturnal existence. Staying in her cabin during the day, to avoid being spotted. In those close confines, she wrote articles until her hands cramped. She had little to go on but speculation. That did not stop her from piecing together events with her own prodigious imagination. Night saw her skulking about the ship, getting some much-needed fresh air. And, once the other passengers had retired for the evening, listening at doors.

      Her quarry met in one another’s cabins. Often, their conversations held no information. But tonight had been different.

      “When did the Heirs activate the Primal Source?” The woman’s voice. Her English accent was refined, but her words were tough and strong.

      Gemma pulled from her pocket her notebook and began scribbling furiously in it.

      “Some two and a half months ago.” Another English voice. One of the two men. His voice, so impeccably British in its accents, was deep and sonorous. Even now, with a door between them, his voice played havoc with her normally reliable sensibilities. She remembered the impact his voice had on her at the trading post, and ruefully reflected that none of that impact had been lost in the intervening time and distance. “But they haven’t the faintest idea what to do with it.”

      “That’s why they came for me in Canada,” said the woman.

      “If the Heirs can’t use the Primal Source,” the second man noted, “then there shouldn’t be any danger.” The accents of western Canada marked this man’s voice, yet he held a natural authority in his tone.

      “It does not work that way,” the woman answered. “The Primal Source has the power to grant and embody the possessor’s most profound hopes and dreams.”

      “Even if said possessor does not actively attempt this?” asked the Canadian.

      The woman replied, “All the Primal Source needs is to be in close proximity to the one who possesses it, and it can act on even the most buried desires.”

      Good gravy! What could this Primal Source be?

      Just then, a sailor on watch walked through the passageway. He looked at Gemma, standing alone outside a cabin door, with a curious frown.

      “Can I help you, miss?” he asked.

      “Just looking for my key,” she murmured, careful to keep her voice down. Her notebook was concealed in the folds of her skirt. “I’m such a ninny—I can never remember where I put it.”

      “The purser can get you another one.”

      “Oh, no,” Gemma said. She made some wave of her hand, the universal sign of a woman who doesn’t want to be a bother. “I’ll find it. Please, carry on with whatever you were doing.”

      “Are you sure, miss?”

      Blast these polite sailors. “Yes, quite sure.” She smiled and, God help her, fluttered her lashes. Gemma never considered herself a beautiful woman—red hair and freckles weren’t often considered the height of female loveliness—but she did know that batting her eyelashes generally worked as a distracting device.

      Correct. The sailor, hardly more than a boy, flushed, stammered, and then ambled away. The moment he disappeared down the passageway, Gemma pressed her ear to the cabin door, notebook at the ready.

      “And what are the Heirs’ deepest desires?” This was asked by the Canadian. He was the newcomer in the trio, she deduced.

      The reply came from the Englishman, an answer arising from long experience. “The supremacy of England. An empire that encompasses the entire world.”

      Gemma pressed her hand to her mouth, horrified by the idea. It seemed the stuff of a despotic nightmare, to have one country in control of the whole globe, with one set of laws. One monarch. The American in Gemma rebelled at the idea. Nearly a hundred years ago, her country had been forged in blood, fighting to free itself from the tyranny of oversea rule. Thousands of lives lost to secure freedom for its citizens. And to lose it all again? Just as every other nation would lose its independence?

      The woman added, in hard, bleak tones, “Somehow, the Primal Source will embody this. Which means destruction and devastation on a global scale.”

      “Unless the Blades stop the Heirs’ dream from manifesting,” said the Englishman.

      “I pray to God we aren’t too late.” This, from the woman. A grim hope.

      On that somber note, the voices within wished each other a good night. Gemma scurried away, into the shadows, to watch from a safe distance. Peering around the corner of the passageway, she saw the door to the cabin open, yellow lamplight falling into the corridor. A woman and man emerged, holding hands. The woman was fair in coloring, slight of build, but she radiated a steely strength matched by the bronze-skinned man beside her.

      When they stepped into the passageway, the man tensed slightly. The change in his posture was so subtle, Gemma barely saw it, but the woman felt the change at once.

      “What is it, Nathan?” she asked.

      He peered around, much the way a wolf might search for prey. “Thought I sensed something … familiar.” He gazed up and down the passageway with sharp, dark eyes, and Gemma could have sworn he was actually smelling the air.

      She flattened herself against the bulkhead, hiding, heart knocking against her ribs. She’d come too far to be found out now, so close to the story.

      She heard the man take a step in her direction, then stop. “It’s this damned sea air. Can’t get a bead on anything.”

      “We’ll СКАЧАТЬ