This story was originally being presented in chunks on my LiveJournal, so to help those who are trying to find a specific part (especially since I gave up attempting to chapterize this), I am providing navigation to the LJ "chunks" that were posted. Click on the date here at the top, and you'll go to the beginning of the new segment.

 

 

The skies over Penzance were clear and the awakening stars were dimmed only by the twinkling lights of Lord Courington's new sky-yacht, the Escalus. It was a Skynaut model T-220, brand new off the assembly line - technically not available to the public. But the Earl of Cornwall, Courington's esteemed father, had connections. The sky-yacht was tethered to its launching tower at the moment, to allow the boarding of all the youngest, best, and brightest of the peerages...and, of course, to show it all off.

All of this had Lady Abney, daughter of the Countess of Darlington, practically salivating, which was unsettling her date. Not that he wasn't already unsettled; he adjusted his bow tie for the fifteenth time since their shuttle had dropped them off and looked around at the lords and ladies present. "You know," he whispered, "even back in America, I was never much one for socializing."

"You'll do fine," she replied, eyes still rapt upon the Escalus as the lift took them up. The lights from inside the zeppelin were visible now, and she could see the very fine furniture it'd been outfitted with: a sort of modern take on Victorian furnishings, very In right now, of course. Most everything was gilt - even some of the outer envelope supports were glinting gold. "All you really have to do, socially, is hang on my arm and be appropriately fawning. Other than that, just keep your eyes open...Richard," she reminded him, using his pseudonym.

"Fetch you mimosas and look at security, yes yes, I've been briefed by the crew," he commented wryly. She tore her eyes away from the yacht to shoot him a glare, then straightened his tie for him as she admonished,"And leave your bloody tie alone already, you look fine."

He didn't comment as she went back to looking over their future prey, mostly because he didn't want to draw attention to his reddening face. He hadn't signed on to this crew expecting anything like this. Everything, from the moment he'd stepped aboard, had surprised him, and the capper to it all was that the most successful airship pirate of the modern era was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen - and nothing like the few photos that existed of her.

He shot her a sideways look for the 17th time that hour: her mahogany hair had been curled then swept up with mother-of-pearl combs, letting gentle cascades artfully trickle out of place. Her skin was the pale porcelain the peerage preferred, the mark of a sheltered life of little-to-no labor. Her eyes were golden, the only visible mark that she was at all different from the rest of these people, but the Abney women were witches, so no one blinked twice. They'd held their land through the Burnings by the skin of their teeth; no one really gave it much thought now. She was wearing one of the VERY latest dresses by a hot new designer: hot pink, low cut, curve-hugging. The phrase she had used to describe it was "tight enough to show I'm a woman, but loose enough to show I'm a lady." The phrase he used for it was "dress that makes me think things I should not about my captain." And of course, artfully done makeup, scads of diamond and pearl jewelry - the works. She was the very picture of a fluff-headed party girl, which was, of course, the point. He knew that. It didn't throw him off any less. She didn't wear these sort of things on the ship. She was never this close to him either. He was very glad when the lift breathed to a stop at the top of the launch tower.

She led the way out, of course; he was eye-and-arm candy, not one of the landed gentry here to giggle, flirt and gossip. She stepped out onto the metal walkway, decorated with soft lighting, and ran as best high heel shoes would let her to embrace another young woman of similar...decor; he followed dutifully along behind. The two were twittering to each other so fast, he could hardly make out actual words. He wasn't entirely sure they were actually speaking until he heard his cover name and felt the captain tug on his arm.

"This is Richard Haverstock from America. His father runs a stationary company, it's huge, darling, you wouldn't believe, and isn't he just delicious? No, no, he's mine you can't have him don't even think it and I know you were too, Becca, I saw it in your eyes!"

"Becca" pouted at being denied access to the supposedly rich American. "Delia, you steal all the best toys!" He couldn't help laughing, and was grateful that "Delia" joined in. He was going to have to get used to this, if only for a few hours. He looked past the girls at the yacht just waiting to yield up its secrets.

Well, I'm going to have to get through this, so the sooner we get in there and find all the cracks in their security, the sooner we can leave. I can get out of this monkey suit, and I won't be alone with my captain wearing an absolutely indecent dress and insisting on pressing herself against me all the time. Aloud, he commented, smooth as honey, "Delia darling, you promised me a trip around your friend's new ship, and maybe one or two around the dance floor as well. Why don't we take this conversation inside, where the drinks are, hm?"

"Oh how very right you are, come on, Becca, I can't wait to see Marten's little boat! I'm sure it's just darling, we have to go see!" He looked up at the Escalus again: "little" wasn't a term most people with a decent grasp of the English language would use to describe it. At the door, tuxedoed doormen handed out sheets of glossy paper that described all the features: a Jacuzzi spa, a movie theater that could seat 50, 10 suite bedrooms with King size beds, a study with library and full wireless Internet throughout the ship. Delia looked at it and tossed it over the side of the launch bridge to let it flutter 1,000 feet down to the ground. He kept his, tucking it thoughtfully inside his jacket; after all, it had a map of the interior, which could be useful.

He hated it inside almost as soon as they stepped in, but tried to focus his vision away from the laughing and talking and too loud music to the security, as requested. Men in tuxes with earwires were obviously hired just for this event, but he spotted some regular crewmen ducking through the peerage as unobtrusively as possible. "Richard, be a luv, won't you?" his date purred at him, and he nodded and headed for the refreshment table. He'd been briefed on what to order her and had been told to get whatever he wanted for himself so long as he was still up to doing his job. Most of the crew said they ordered non-alcoholic drinks so as not to let the captain down. He slapped a couple notes on the bar and said, "Champagne and a Scotch - a double, preferably, and don't bother with the ice."

 

 

 

It seemed like an eternity before the cap...er...Lady Abney started tugging him back towards the more private areas of the ship. In reality, it'd been only two hours; it had taken every ounce of his self control not to check his watch and fidget with his bow tie every 30 seconds.

"So?" she asked, when they were out of earshot, "What've you found out?" And aside from the way she was tarted up, she was quite definitely the captain again: the very model of no-nonsense British efficiency.

He ran over the tidbits he'd picked up from the crew about shift changes, number of crewmen (the Escalus could be run with a surprisingly small complement - either that or the Lord was overconfident), and the existence of a safe in the study where his Lordship kept his own personal firearms and some particularly precious valuables. The captain hooted quietly.

"Marten couldn't hit the broad side of an Imperial Gunship if he had both eyes open, a scope and point-blank range. Thinks joining 'Defenders of the Isles' makes him worth a damn as a marksman. No, he's not a threat; when we come in, he'll probably piss himself. But the safe...that was good work, Mister Everhart," she commented, finally using his real name. "And all the rest of that as well; far better than most of the crew have done when I bring them on these little jaunts. Perhaps I should require my dates to drink double Scotches more often."

"Can we just do this and get out of here already, captain? I think if I have to call you 'Delia darling' one more time, I'll throw up."

She chuckled quietly and stopped outside the study. "Aww, but you've been doing so well, bosun."

"Yes, well, bring Lucius next time," he groused as they walked in. She stopped him from hitting the light switch and he nodded in understanding.

"Can't. Cordelia Abney with a Romani werewolf? Oh, that'd be lovely." She poked around the desk in the darkness and waved him over towards the bookshelves. "I like a certain amount of tabloid ink of my party-girl exploits, to keep people looking away, but THAT..."

He nearly tripped over a small loveseat and then started sorting through books, looking for false ones with hollowed out insides for hiding jewels. "How would they know he's a Romani werewolf unless you tell them? You certainly didn't tell them I'm a fugitive from American justice. And then there's everything you don't tell them about yourself..."

"Oh, shut it. You know Lucius, he'd never be able to handle this. He'd be too busy trying to charm every woman in the room and lifting their pretty jewels for himself right then and there. Blast it, Marten, I know you don't have the combination memorized...can't count to 10 without using his fingers." She scowled at the desk; at least, he assumed she did. She was using her scowling voice. He continued digging through books, half expecting a secret passageway to open up if he pulled the right one.

Then they both froze as the sound of boot steps reached their ears. He barely had time to think about what to do before the captain reacted: he turned around and she was already in front of him and pushing him down on the love seat. He didn't really know what to do with his hands; he'd been told that S.O.P. in case of potential discovery in private areas of these ships was to pretend to be making out. She'd worked hard to craft the image of a young woman who couldn't always wait to get her toys home; security guards just chuckled and turned them out without reporting the "indiscretion" to anyone else of more authority.

And then suddenly, he stopped thinking about what he was supposed to be doing and why. She was kissing him. Actually kissing him, not pretending to be necking. He couldn't really do more than loan his lips out and wrap his arms carefully around her waist. A hand reached out and tugged one of his hands lower, so he obliged. Passionate make-out scene, check. He just really couldn't get over the fact that she was actually kissing him; the crew hadn't told him about this. In fact, they'd stressed that he was not to touch her inappropriately or attempt actual "lip contact".

The lights came on, and even with his eyes closed, the sudden shift from darkness was a little dazing. Her lips disappeared and she pushed away from him; he opened his eyes. The security guard had a knowing smirk on his face. "Richard" cleared his throat; Lady Abney was already blushing, tittering and reluctantly clambering off of her date, thank god. He sat up and smoothed his hair out.

"Right, you two, off you go. You can wait till you get home, hm?" the guard grinned.

"I suppose if I must...come, Richard dear," she said. She was back in peerage-party-girl form, ordering him around like a dog. He was used to taking orders from her by now, but not like this. Not with the condescending disregard that she seemed to hold for him; he was a toy, a pet. Even knowing it was an act for the sake of the guard and her peers, it got his back up a little. He hoped she didn't ask for another drink; he might throw it in her face and storm out. That'd make some nice tabloid ink, hm? Cordelia Abney being dumped for a change, instead of going through dates like underwear. He tamped down the anger. An act. She's pretending. But she did it so damn well.

Back at the party proper, she frowned. "I'll have to go suck up to Marten to find out the safe's whereabouts. But you mark my words, he's got that combination written down somewhere," she confided lowly. "Damn. What I wouldn't give for a little C-4. Just a smidge. We could blow the safe. But I doubt even Lucius can get me explosives on such short notice."

"Short notice?" he asked. "When were you planning on pulling off this heist?"

"I was thinking tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" She shushed at him and he lowered his voice; they were back among the glitterati now, after all. "You're going to stay up all night and then come storm this place the next day?"

"Oh please, like you never pulled an all-nighter before. Besides, they won't expect it. They'll still be cleaning up from this little...shindig," she waved a hand around, "Oh, sure, they'll have swapped crews by then for a fresh one, but no one's going to expect this thing to be attacked on its maiden voyage. I do love the element of surprise."

"Yes, we thrive on it," he agreed dryly. "Look, you're the captain, I'm not gainsaying you here, but I just think..."

"Delia! Were you being naughty again?" It was yet another of the moneyed drones, no, two of them, a couple. They were arm-in-arm, grinning affably and downing booze. The captain giggled and confirmed the suspicion by pretending to dodge it. She and the man were caught up in teasing each other about their sexual escapades, leaving him to hold his own with the young lady. Her decolletage was a bit more...on display than the captain's, and she made sure he was getting a good view. He sighed and wished for another scotch, or better yet, some 100 proof rum.

Fine. We're going to play games, let's play. "Delia darling," he gushed, trying to hold back his vomit reflex, "I did rather like the guard's idea about Going Home." He put a hand on her shoulder and let it slide down her arm, and gave what he hoped was a suggestive smile. He hadn't thought pretend seduction was going to be on the list of needed skills for tonight. "So perhaps we should..." and he let the question hang in the air for the other two as he leaned in to whisper, "...get the hell out of here and start planning?" He made sure to straighten up with a grin and tried to look eager, which was easy enough. He was eager. He was sick of this place, of the pretending.

She shot him a brief look of consternation - does she actually want to stay here?!, he thought incredulously - then giggled and elegantly rested a hand on his chest as if to restrain him. "I suppose I got him all worked up. Well, nothing to do for it, hm?" She tittered brainlessly again and he wanted for all the world to slap her, the way one settles down hysterical women in the movies. She wrapped herself around his arm and began saying her good-byes.

Which, of course, took another hour. He fawned appropriately, kept an arm around her waist and generally tried not to think about her kissing him earlier. It didn't make sense, and he was puzzling over it. She hadn't kissed any other crewmembers, nor encouraged them to put their hands on her. At least, no one had said so. She'd never really shown much interest in anyone, and he wasn't sure what he'd think if she had. Sure, it was a pirate vessel, but she ran it tighter than a snare drum. She didn't seem the type to take liberties with her crew. Maybe she just had one too many mimosas. The security guard who'd rousted them out of the study winked at him.

"If you're so hot to plunder this boat, why didn't we just show up with guns blazing and take it, instead of going through all this rigmarole?" he whispered in her ear, trying to look affectionate and impatient to get laid.

"First off, because I was invited, and it'd be rude not to show up," she replied in normal voice. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper, batted her eyelids and added, "And secondly because Marten can be paranoid from time to time, and I am not risking my crew more than I have to. Intelligence was necessary." She straightened his bow tie, pushed lightly on his nose, grinned and spun back to finish saying goodbye to Becca.

The air outside the sky-yacht was smoggy, and oppressively humid. He loved it, couldn't get enough. It was still less stifling than being on that ship. He was already pulling off his bow tie. He waited until they were in the lift to really breathe though.

"You did very well, Mister Everhart. And if you don't have the stamina for it, I suppose I can drop you at base while we go on the raid," she teased him. He sighed, closed his eyes, and prepared himself.

"What The Hell Was That In There?!" he asked, giving full voice (though moderate volume) to his frustration. "Kissing me isn't supposed to be part of the cover! At least, it's not what I was briefed on!"

"Are you complaining?" she replied evenly, without looking at him.

"Am I...?" He stared at her. "You're shitting me, right? You're My CAPTAIN! I...I don't know how to react to that sort of thing!"

"It's all part of the cover! Oh sure, normally I just let my 'date' push me against a wall, but most of the walls are bookcases in there! There's a love seat, and an actual couple would make use of it!"

"That's not what I'm asking about and you know it!" The lift doors opened at the bottom and they got out. He signaled for the shuttle. "Don't play dumb with me!"

"CAPTAIN," she added significantly, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

That didn't help the rising tide of anger. "Okay, fine, 'Don't play dumb with me, CAPTAIN!' Happy now?"

"Much, thanks," she shot back.

"So can I get an answer then? You know damn well that if our positions were reversed, you would slap me across the face for kissing you back there!"

She whirled on him. "Then go right on and slap me, if you think I deserve it! I'll not hold a double standard! If it was SO TERRIBLE kissing me, then go ahead and slap me!"

The thought crossed his mind. Repeatedly. And then the shuttle plane arrived and stalled all further conversation on the topic. The door opened and a crewman in Darlington livery bowed to them. Abney glared at him, stormed up the stairs and into the plane, and he followed after her, pulling his damn tux jacket off. They took seats across the aisle from each other in the small craft and said nothing while it taxied and took off.

Then, unable to get around it any longer, he leaned over and asked quietly, "What would you do if I kissed you right now...Captain?" he asked.

"I'd smack you," she replied curtly, then added so their pilot couldn't hear them, "because we're in public." Some color came into her cheeks, but she just looked ahead instead of at him.

He straightened up. So that's how it is. "Right, wouldn't want the crew to see," he commented. She nodded and started taking her earrings out, casting him a curious glance. He declined her the pleasure of his response, and instead just stared out the window.

They climbed back into the night sky, sailing through the stars over England until they landed at Darlington Isle, a man-made island just off the Northern coast. The plane taxied, and Captain Abney rose to her feet. He stood also and, in the small cabin, was perhaps a step or two away from being able to kiss her again, if he chose.

"I don't work that way," he told her, the first thing he'd said in the two hour trip. "I'm a lot of things, Captain, but I'm no one's toy." And as soon as the door opened, he stepped out.

 

 

 

Lt. Massri was waiting for her as she disembarked, and she didn't like the look on her face. "Lieutenant?" she asked in a tone that she hoped showed she wasn't in the mood.

Apparently she didn't take notice. Or didn't care. "Ryker just stormed by here; I take it he didn't have fun then?" Even after all this time, there was still that odd accent mixed in with her Queen's English: something Middle Eastern, but older. Something that harkened back centuries.

She scowled. "No, Mister Everhart did not. But we got a lot of useful information, which is all that's important." She started pulling combs out of her hair as she headed for her quarters. Unfortunately, she wasn't to be left alone so easily.

"That's all that's important?" the 2nd-in-command grinned fangily. Cordelia rolled her eyes at the vampire.

"Yes, actually, that is all that's important. And this is the last time I take your suggestions on who to bring with me to these things. You're worse than my mother. I am not about to actually date anyone on my crew!" She unlocked her door with her code and shoved her way in, taking her mood out on the door. Lt. Massri stepped in behind her and dutifully unzipped the back of the dress. "You're just upset because I was right this time. I've seen the way he looks at you, Del. I'm telling you..."

She sighed. Trying to remind her who was boss here wasn't working and she was tired. She dropped the high-and-mighty act. "Cleo, it isn't right to date my crew, and don't start in on that 'You're a Pirate Queen, you can do what you want' shite again. You know how I was raised. You know Mum AND Grandmum, and they wouldn't condone it. All your romantic notions are just...they're fiction. Idealistic claptrap, if you'll forgive my saying so." She stepped out of the dress and went to her private bathroom, leaving the door open a crack to continue the conversation. "Mister Everhart is my bosun, he's one of my officers. I'd as soon date Lucius as I would him."

"Cordelia Abney with a gypsy werewolf?" Cleo laughed. "Oh the Sun would have a FIELD DAY, you should do it, it'd be priceless!"

"So glad my love life amuses you," she shot acidly.

"You don't have a love life, and that's not funny, it's just sad. Now, your Grandmum, on the other hand, hoo! Man in every port! Your pretend scandal sheet antics were NOTHING compared to her real ones! I remember one time, there was this guy with an unusually large..."

"CLEO! I do NOT want to hear this about my own GRANDMOTHER!"

"Gun. I was going to say 'gun' and no, I don't mean it as a euphemism. I mean, how would I know, it's not like we ever had a threesome..."

"Cleeeeoooo," she moaned for pity, squeezing her eyes closed as if that could block the image. She knew what Grandmum used to look like - the pictures were famous - but she couldn't help picturing the octogenarian she was used to instead. "Look, I want to attack in a few hours, so shouldn't we be going over our strategy instead of reviewing my family's sexual exploits or my own lack thereof?"

"Yes, Captain, of course." Cleo stretched. "Crew's been getting some shut-eye. Since you took the bosun with you, I've been keeping an eye on them, and no one's acted up. I'll go start rousing them then, and leave you to changing."

"Thank you," she breathed in gratitude. It'd been a long night of flirting, gossiping, drinking and intrigue, and the fight with Ry...Mister Everhart had not been a good capper. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd kissed him, when it came right down to it, but it hadn't been proper. And she respected him for declining what had turned out to be a very bad idea. Anything worse than sleeping with an officer would be sleeping with an officer behind the entire crew's back.

Didn't mean part of her didn't wish he'd taken her up on it. Making good and certain she was alone, she allowed herself to comment aloud, "Bloody Americans."

 

 

 

Wilkie'd been working for the Couringtons a good long while now, in one capacity or another. Pleased to be in good with the gentry, he'd been honored to accept a position polishing gilt aboard the young master's newest toy. His security in the job had never even occurred to him.

That was until the morning after the young master's fancy shindig, when the Escalus's outer hatch blasted clean off and flew to the other side of the room, missing him by centimeters. Smoke billowed in, followed by black-clad, knife-wielding figures, and all he could think was, Should've asked for hazard pay. A raise, at least.

The bugger of it all was that the security guards had just left. Time for a shift change, and there was clocking in and out to do, reports to be given, bullshitting around the water cooler to be done. He didn't know how this lot hadn't crossed paths with 'em, but here they were anyway, large as life.

That they were pirates was obvious. But the woman leading them was clad head to toe in clingy black leather to match her black tresses, and the mask she was wearing over her nose and mouth was shaped like a lion's muzzle, the detailing worked out in silver paint.

"The Black Lioness..." he said, not realizing he hadn't just thought it. She had yellow eyes, like a cat's, he thought, and she turned them on him now.

"Indeed," her voice came; it sounded low and sort of growly through the mask. "I've no interest in hurting anyone. Stay out of my way and I'll have no reason to change my mind." She looked over her shoulder at two of the men behind her; they weren't wearing tight leather, but their outfits were black and fairly form-fitting. It was as if she employed a whole crew of ninjas, though they were wearing mask of similar fit. Hers was the only one that was at all like a lion though. "Keep an eye on him, just in case. You three," addressing the rest of the crew she'd brought with her, "to the bridge. We take the bridge, we take the ship." She strode off as if she owned the boat, and the three duly ordered ninja-pirates headed off for the bridge at a brisk trot.

Wilkie looked back at the two he'd been left with. They were on either side of the door and took turns watching outside for any interference while the other watched him.

"Ah...mind if I sit?"

The two glanced at each other briefly. The darker-skinned one finally commented, "Fine, but keep your hands where we can see 'em."

"Oh, thanks much, I don't sit much in this job." He plopped himself down and kept his hands out in front of him. "Good job, being a pirate?"

The lighter skinned one chuckled. "Aside from the threat of hanging, it's pretty good. I've no real complaints."

"We're not hiring," the dark skinned one commented, looking out through the blown hatch. Wilkie noticed he had an actual gun strapped to his leg.

"If ya got the guns, why not use 'em?" he asked.

The second guy, with the lighter skin, seemed happy to explain. "Depressurization. For these sorts of situations, not so important, but if you're boarding a ship in significant elevation..."

"Shut up," his counterpart reprimanded him, before looking at Wilkie. "We're not here to entertain you."

"Oh, right, sorry." He looked around. Hatch door was dented and singed. Some of Lord Courington's precious gilt-laden treasures were in pieces. No amount of polish'll bring that back. He picked at his shoes a little before one of the pirates shot him a glare, and he made himself sit still. His heart was thudding in his chest, but mostly he was kind of bored. He just wanted to be in on the excitement.

The Black Lioness herself stalked back in, carrying a black bag he hadn't seen on her before. Suppose it folds up and tucks away somewhere or something, though God and sonny Jesus only know where she stashes anything in that get-up.

"Secure the plank." The two men nodded and headed out of the hatch, back across the walkway to the loading elevator. The Lioness pressed her hand to her ear. "How's the bridge?" She waited a moment, the nodded. "Good job. We're done here. Clear out." She looked at him again, amusement in her cat-eyes. "There, see? Nothing to fret on. Nice story to tell the kids, hm?"

"Yes'm. Thank you." He wasn't really sure what else to say.

She laughed as the three from earlier ran past her for the doorway. She gave a pleasant little wave and ducked out after them. It was the most interesting three-and-a-half minutes of his entire life.

 

 

 

Two Weeks Later...

 

"So, you're doing it again after all, hm?" Lucius commented behind Ryker's back. The accent was thick, Eastern European; it'd been hard to understand Lucius at first, but now he was used to it. The werewolf was pretending not to poke around the bosun's things and Ryker, for his part, was pretending not to notice. He trusted Lucius not to actually take anything; he was just "sniffing around", as it were. Wasn't much for him to take, really. Anyway, Ryker was busy with his damnable bow tie. "I thought you had a terrible time last time."

"I did," he scowled in response. Memories of the last shindig he'd attended with Captain Abney came back, mostly of things said and done that he'd wished had never happened. The last two weeks had been amazingly uncomfortable for him, but until he found some other pirate vessel to spirit himself away on, here is where he'd have to stay. She'd found a chance to apologize in private, and that had helped his pride considerably. But every time he looked at her, he remembered kissing her, followed swiftly by what she had privately termed "an improper suggestion, best to be chalked up to one too many mimosas and forgotten entirely." As if it were that easy. Damn Brits, he thought.

Lucius was giving him the "Well...?" look. He cleared his throat. "But Lieutenant Massri said my intelligence was invaluable. Catching the Escalus crew during that shift change was...well, it was just all over after that. And it was a very nice haul. No one got hurt on our side or theirs; Lord Whatshisname is just less quite a few pounds sterling."

"You're hedging, Everhart." Lucius shut a drawer and leaned against it, folding his arms. He was still in his comfortably baggy linen tunic and pants and his worn leather sandals. Lucius was always dressed like he had just rolled out of bed yet was ready to hit some Mediterranean beach with a bikini-clad Italian supermodel next to him. It infuriated every other man on the ship to no end. Lucius could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it - but then, that was why he was the Quartermaster. "You're not the type to be taken in by flattery."

True enough. "I'll get an extra share if I go with her again," he admitted, and made himself stop fidgeting with the bow tie. "But no one's supposed to know that, so keep it to yourself, okay?"

Lucius straightened up. "You're not the type who cares about money either. I still can't figure out why you're on this bird, but material greed isn't it. And if I were you, I'd keep an eye out for the Lieutenant."

Ryker turned away from the mirror. "You think she's a threat to me? She hasn't harmed a soul the entire time I've been here. At least, not that I know of..."

"Oh, no, no. I keep her well-stocked with blood, and I can usually get her favorite type, so that's not it. But she's a...petitoare..." He had to pause to translate out of Romanian. "Match-maker. Not so much with the rest of the crew, maybe. Sometimes. But especially with the Abneys. She likes to tell the stories of how she convinced the current captain's mother to make a pass at her father. Says all the time our captain wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. So you be careful around such a woman, hm?"

"And you're warning me of this why?"

Lucius leaned in close, face and voice ominously low. "The Nose Knows." And he tapped his nose knowingly as he backed away again. "You will have female claws in you before you know it. Beware."

Ryker had to laugh. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind. In the meantime, to get back to our actual subject, I'm not greedy, you're right. But my mom's birthday's coming up, and an extra share would help me get her something extra nice." He picked up his tux jacket and brushed it off. "Now, if you don't mind...?"

Lucius accepted the lie, for now, and opened the door for him with an ostentatious bow. Ryker pulled his jacket on, gave his thanks and headed for the shuttle plane. Here we go again. But this time is not going to be like last time. We schmooze, find the weaknesses, and that's it. No unauthorized kissing. No "improper suggestions."

 

 

"What the HELL did you think you were doing?!" The captain was not pleased. Well, she was tarted up as Lady Abney at the moment, in yet another fashionable frock, but she was still the captain. He was in his room on the base at Darlington Isle, and she was in his doorway, livid. Ryker just looked at her evenly. Since he'd beaten her back to the island by a good half an hour, he was already in comfortable clothes once more, specifically an old t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. It was sort of out of place with how well-brushed his normally shaggy dark brown hair was. He closed the book he'd been reading and sat up to look at her.

"I should be asking you that, Captain," he retorted, emphasizing her rank. Oh, she knew where he was going with that already. But no, no, not this time.

"I, Mister Everhart," she shot back, advancing into the room, "was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. You heard footsteps, you know S.O.P. for that, and storming off to leave me at a party alone is bloody well NOT S.O.P.!"

He stood. "S.O.P.? Oh, so it's Standard Operating Procedure to make out with one of your crew then? Because that's not what they've been telling me. Unless maybe the 'slutty party girl' routine isn't just a routine?"

The slap echoed through the small room, but it only made him angrier. His blue eyes were hot narrow beads of rage when he looked back at her. She didn't even really care, she just kept going. "All I did was push you against a wall and step in close to you! THAT is S.O.P.! Did I throw you down on a couch again? NO. Did I even try to kiss you? NO."

"Because I called it off before you had the chance to. You know you wanted to."

"Of all the arrogant...," she started, but he cut her off before she could say more.

"Arrogant? Oh, maybe, if it weren't for how you acted the LAST time we went to one of those boring-ass cocktail parties together. I mean, I know you're bored out of your skull at those things, believe me, I get it. But taking time out for a little romp with your bosun isn't the answer!"

"That is NOT what I was doing!"

"And you think I'm just going to roll over and be happy? 'Oh, the Captain picked me as her own personal boytoy! Tee hee, I'm so overjoyed!' Well FUCK THAT, it's not happening, MA'AM," he added sarcastically.

"You're asking for another slap is what you're asking for. I apologized for last time and I did nothing out of line this time at all! Suddenly you're just pushing me away and leaving me stranded there!"

"Oh yes, I wonder what the papers will say about THAT?"

A new voice interjected, "You don't have to wonder." It was Cleo and she was holding the early edition of the Sun, Britain's favorite trashy tabloid. Splashed across the front cover was a picture of the two of them entering the party, smiling. He had an arm around her waist and she was waving to a friend. The headline read "DELIA FINDS LOVE THEN LOSES IT AGAIN". The lieutenant seemed bemused. "The press is astounded by the fact that you brought the same man to a party twice...and even more so by the fact that he got fed up with being a sextoy already and walked out on you." She turned the paper over and held it at arms' length so she could take in the whole thing again. "I'm going to have this framed, I think."

"You stay out of this," the captain shot at her. "I'm not in the mood." She turned back to Ryker, pointing imperiously. "YOU are suspended, for a week minimum."

"Fine by me."

"Captain," Cleo was trying to be the voice of reason, "this is PERFECT. Don't you see? With everyone so agog over who your mystery boyfriend is and the drama going on with you two, who's even going to NOTICE another ship robbery? This is distraction at its finest, this is masterful! You two are a GREAT couple - we can play this for months, maybe even years..."

"SHUT UP!" they both yelled at her. The vampire didn't seem intimidated by the sudden rise in volume, she just blinked at the synchronicity of it. Ryker spun around to start packing.

"By the by, you do know most of the crew've been able to hear you two?" she commented.

Cordelia snarled, "I don't give a damn."

"Don't you?" Ryker shot back. "You're so willing to kiss me when we're alone but oh no, don't let the rest of the crew find out! They might think you're human or something." She bristled, and he added, "I'm not making a slur against your being a witch."

"She's not much of one," Cleo muttered.

He continued, "But dammit, you act like you're so above us all. Like the next step in human evolution or something. You're Cordelia Abney, so moral, so good and pure. Sure she acts like one of the mindless party drones of the nobility, but she's so much BETTER than all of that!" It was his turn to point at her. "But you're not, are you? You're just unwilling to admit that you have a problem."

"I think the word you want is 'attraction'," offered the vampire lurking in the doorway. Cordelia shot her a glare. "You're not helping, Lieutenant."

Ryker objected, "No, no, I think she is. I think she nailed it." They both looked at him. "You're attracted to me, and you had the opportunity to kiss me, so you took it. 'Cause you can't just admit it, oh no. Then you'd have to deal with it and with 'consequences' - oooh, so scary!" The accused frowned at him, but he wasn't finished; Lt. Massri looked like she wanted some popcorn for this show. "So instead, it's 'Oh, it's just part of the cover' and 'Kissing me in private is perfectly okay.' It's not like I was asking for a public display of affection! I wasn't asking to kiss you up on stage or something! We were alone in that airplane cabin, but we might've been walked in on and you wouldn't have 'cover' to hide behind. THAT'S your problem. You don't want to deal with an attraction to a...a subordinate, so you'll just hide. You'll deny it. Well, all due respect, but FUCK THAT. I'm not playing along."

She was poleaxed for a moment as he turned back to finish shoving clothes into a suitcase. Finally, she pulled herself together. "You think you're any better?"

"You're goddamn right I do."

"You're not! That's all a fortnight ago, but what about tonight? I asked you along again because you're damn good at this! Most other crewman get so nervous about hanging around with the uppercrust that they forget what they're doing. You don't! You can drink and smalltalk and still find five different entry and exit points in any given room! You're a natural at it, and even though I knew things would be awkward, I asked you anyway, because Fredrick's got a practically floating fortress up there, and if anyone deserved to be brought down a few notches, it's him. He's going to be a much tougher nut to crack than Marten, and so I needed the best I had up there. That, Mister Everhart, is you.

"But when we were nearly caught snooping about, I knew I'd have to be careful. I was trying NOT to make you feel like a 'toy', as you put it. I did with you the same thing I've done with every other crewman I've taken along, and you flipped out! My lips never got anywhere near yours, hell, we were touching for all of 10 seconds when you decided to throw your little tantrum! So what were YOU thinking, hm? Your mind went straight back to where it wanted to go, and you got to throw the fit you'd been wishing you'd had the balls to throw the FIRST time. That's ALL you did. 'Cause the last time, you didn't complain so much, now did you? No, last time, you were more than happy to hold me and kiss me right back, and you're mad now. Esprit d'escalier hit you upside the head hard, that's fine, but don't put it all on me!"

He didn't answer, just zipped his suitcase and stormed out. Cleo let him pass and arched an eyebrow at the captain, who retorted, "Shut up, I don't want to hear it."

Cleo just commented quietly, "It's natural for a couple to go through things like this," as they walked back towards the captain's office.

"We are not a couple, Cleo."

"Could fool me," came the grinning response. Delia scowled. "Should I try and find out which hotel he's going to be staying at?"

"No."

"Should I have him followed?"

"NO."

"Should I have Tobias send over some Haagen-Dazs and french fries?"

"Chocolate chip cookie dough." She pushed her door open and slammed it behind her.

 

 

John Hastings looked himself over again in the shop window. Lunch with a Lady wouldn't normally present him with such fits, but this wasn't just any lady. This was Lady Abney, future Countess of Darlington. The tabloids were having a field day with her lately, which wasn't in and of itself unusual; for awhile there, the Delia Watch had been a regular column in the Sun. But this sudden beau of mysterious American origin had the whole country atwitter. He wondered sometimes if the Darlingtons and the Sun didn't have an...understanding. Certainly the trash mag wouldn't be doing half so well if it weren't for Lady Abney's exploits. She ought to be getting royalties.

People wrote her off as a fluff-headed party girl, but he knew better. He'd had opportunity to speak with her on a couple of occasions, during the Black Lioness investigation; she was a free spirit, that's all: convivial, outgoing, unwilling to be tied down. He refused to believe she'd really sleep with all her dates; there was so much more to her than anyone suspected, he'd bet his badge on it.

And now, a lunch date! Well, sort of. He had called to ask for a time to speak with her over the latest Black Lioness robbery; she had clearly been there with this...American of hers and so maybe she'd seen something? Her social secretary had put him on hold for a few minutes and then come back with a response that the Lady would be happy to have lunch with him when she was in the City on Wednesday next, and arranged a meeting at 11:30 at the Temple Bar. And now here it was, and she was walking down the street towards him. He smoothed his just-clipped blonde hair back and straightened his tie.

She was smiling at him. Oh God. He smiled back and hoped he didn't look too much like an idiot. She was in a navy dress that clung to her until it flared out at her hips. It flowed as she walked along with her shopping bags. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes shielded from the glaring daylight by the most stylish sunglasses. White strappy sandals, minimal jewelry - she was the very picture of demure loveliness. She certainly put his suit and tie to shame.

"Detective Inspector Hastings, so good to see you again!" She extended her hand so gracefully he almost wanted to kneel and kiss it. He shook it gently instead.

"Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to see me, Lady Abney. I just had a few questions about the..."

"Black Lioness, of course. How is your investigation going?" She was all smiles and courtesy. He told himself that she was being polite with him, there was certainly no indication of special interest here. It helped to remind himself of his place.

"Same as always. She shows up, robs an airship blind, and just disappears into the skies again. But I'll catch her some day, make no mistake."

"Oh, I'm sure," she enthused. She transferred two of her shopping bags to one hand and helped herself to one of his arms. "Shall we discuss this over lunch then? I'm famished, and the Gaucho Chancery's just down this way." She started tugging him along and he hoped she hadn't noticed him blushing, though the mention of an expensive Argentinean steakhouse was helping that die down. That'd put a crimp in the expense account; the Chief would give him a proper chewing out. But that was for worrying about later. For now, he had a beautiful lady of the peerage on his arm, and an investigation to run.

"I do thank you for your faith in me, Lady Abney. I know she's menaced you before, and I swear I'll put an end to..." He was stopped by her laughter.

"She's 'menaced' me? Oh, how very droll of you, Detective Inspector! But I cherish the sentiment, truly I do, don't think I was making fun of you. And please, do call me Delia; 'Lady Abney' sounds so stuffy. And you're of the peerage, aren't you? Hastings is from Huntingdon, yes?"

"Did you look that up in the directory?" he asked, surprised.

"Maybe you're not the only one who can investigate, hm? But, no, Mum made me memorize the peerage lines when I was a girl. I don't remember most of them, but Hastings/Huntingdon wasn't that hard to recollect. So I should ask if you prefer Detective Inspector as your title or Lord, shouldn't I?"

"I'm the second son of the second son of the current Earl of Huntingdon, so 'Lord' hardly seems fitting. If I have to have either, I prefer my NSY rank, but I'd much rather you call me John."

"John it is then. Much less of a mouthful than 'Detective Inspector' anyway. Less than 'Cordelia' as well; I don't know what my parents were thinking."

"I think it's a lovely name," he reassured her. She patted his arm.

"So nice of you to say so." She finally disengaged from him as they entered the restaurant, so that she could rush over to the maitre'd and secure them a good table. They were led upstairs to a quiet table overlooking the lower floor. The wine steward was there almost immediately and they sampled a couple of dry reds before settling on the '04 Cobos Malbec. The wine steward was replaced with the waiter, and they ordered their steaks and salads before finally settling down to business.

"I hate to spoil a fine lunch with business, so let's clear it out of the way, shall we?" He was hoping to clear away the reminder of how much his steak alone was going to be costing, let alone the expensive wine. "You were at Lord Courington's party a couple of weeks ago, correct?"

"Oh yes, Marten's little shindig on his new party boat, the...whatever he's calling it. The Icharus or something?"

"Escalus," he corrected. She went on as if she hadn't even heard him.

"It was such a cute little thing! Becca, you know her? Rebecca Hervey? Her older brother Freddie's the next Marquess of Bristol, and I don't know why the Sun doesn't pay more attention to his little comedies, instead of to me, because some of the things Becca's said about him...oh, you would not believe me, John dear, you just wouldn't."

As thrilled as he was to be addressed as "John dear", he tried to pull her back on track. "Yes, well, did you or Lady Hervey see anything unusual or out-of-the-ordinary that night? Anyone acting particularly strange?"

"Unusual? The way Marten has his little party boat decked out is unusual. Far far too much gilt, though Becca swore it was perfect. But I think she fancies him, though I couldn't say why. No one that I recall was acting strange, at least not that night..." She pouted in an incredibly fetching manner and crossed her arms, leaning back in her seat. He took a guess as to what she was getting at.

"Are you upset about the American? I'd heard you allowed him to accompany you both to Lord Courington's and then to Lord Hervey's the other night."

"Yes! Yes, I did, and he repays me by just storming off and leaving me there! Of all the nerve...the sheer ingratitude!...I've never in all my life..."

He stopped her before she could get going on a particularly good tear. "You know I would normally hate to suggest such a thing, but perhaps he's involved somehow."

"Involved?" She sat up and looked at him curiously. "You think he's seeing someone else?"

"No, no, I meant with the Black Lioness. I mean, he shows up at Lord Courington's party and the very next day, the airship is robbed."

She laughed. "Oh, John dear, you are such a comedian. Oh, Richard as a pirate? Oh, that is PRICELESS!" She rested her arms on the table and leaned forward, which afforded him a near perfect view down the front of her dress. "Can you imagine him in that tight black leather get-up the Lioness wears in the pictures? Oh GOD, I'd just die!" She straightened up to laugh again.

"Well, it does sound silly when you put it like that, but perhaps I should look into it regardless."

"Oh please, John dear, don't waste your time. He's a cad. Besides, he's an American; what would the Black Lioness be doing with an American? She's a Brit, isn't she? I mean, the symbolism and all..."

"Well, it is true she's never attacked anything but ships of British peerage, but perhaps she's branching out."

"But she has to be getting old by now, yes? She's been raiding since before my mother was born. She probably needs a walker. Or a wheelchair! Can you imagine a pirate in a wheelchair? Oh god, I'd die, it'd be too priceless!"

He smiled indulgently. "Yes, but we believe it isn't really the same woman. It might be a mantle passed on from mother to daughter or else she finds an acceptable heir some other way. A crew member or...or an escaped criminal or something. But the point is, while this..." he pretended as if he couldn't remember the name,"...Richard Haverstock is certainly not the Black Lioness himself, he may be her advance man, scouting out potential targets."

Delia smiled at him patronizingly from across the table, but there was an anxiety to her eyes. "John, really. You are so imaginative." But she was entertaining the possibility, and didn't like it. He resolved to look into this Haverstock character immediately.

"If I were you, Delia," he was so pleased to be allowed to say her name, "I'd contact your friends the Herveys as soon as possible. It's possible that Lord Hervey's sky-yacht is next on her list."

"Oh I'll be sure to." Their food arrived, and the smell of it made him forget the price for a moment. Delia freed her napkin from her silverware with a flourish and continued, "I have to tell Becca ALL about today anyway. I picked up some fetching little numbers in Soho - they are SO Bohemian, she will just DIE...."

He cut into his steak and savored this moment as she prattled on about her purchases: excellent food and drink in the company of a beautiful and privileged young woman. He had a lead to follow on a pirate who had been dogging the British peerage for over half a century, and he was now on a first name basis with a woman he'd once believed beyond his star. Today could not be any better, he thought.

 

 

 

"Today could not be any worse," Delia fumed. She was back in her rooms proper, at Northstead Hall. She'd been fuming the entire trip home from London, and since she'd returned, she'd become determined to wear a rut in the Persian carpet. Cleo looked at her over the top of the evening edition of the Sun. Unlike the young witch's pleasant sundress, Cleo was in a sweater and dark jeans; even after all these years, English climate did not suit her.

"Well, the gossip's dying down now, more's the pity. So if that's what's got your knickers in a twist..."

"He knows. Well, he doesn't know, but he suspects, and that means he's going to be digging around."

"Who, Ryker?" She lowered the newspaper and looked at Delia with interest.

"No! Detective Inspector Hastings! I had lunch with him today and he bloody well suspects Ryker's got something to do with me. Well, with the Black Lioness; he still has no absolutely NO clue there. But then he's too busy picturing me in a wedding gown to think of me as a pirate."

"You could use that, you know."

"I have been! Gushing all over him, calling him 'John dear'..." she waved her hands and sighed in exhaustion, as if she'd spent the whole day swatting at flies. "And now we're going to have to postpone hitting Frederick in his pocketbook, which he bloody well deserves." She flopped backwards onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. "He should thank me; with less money to buy prostitutes and cocaine, he might actually MAKE something of himself, in spite of all his best attempts to the contrary."

Cleo got up from the neo-regency chair gracefully, leaving the Sun behind her, and walked over to peer down at her captain. "So we put it off a bit. It's not the end of the world. Pilfer another peer's pretties, throw Hastings off his game. Between you turning his head and his attention on Ryker and Lord Hervey, he won't know where you'll strike next."

"You're right. You're ALWAYS right." She propped herself up on her elbows. "How do you do that?"

"Walk the earth for a few hundred lifetimes, and you can be right all the time too," she grinned fangily.

Even having known Cleo all her life, seeing her do that still unnerved Delia. It made her fight or flight instinct rear up, and fight usually wanted the upper hand. She didn't like the reminder of how her friend and lifelong companion continued her existence. "Have you fed tonight, by the way?"

"Oh stop looking so concerned. I've got a bag thawing out. I'll just go warm it up, be right back."

"You can take your time. Enjoy it. It's okay."

The vampire stopped en route to the door and looked back. "It still bugs you, huh? Ever since you were a little girl, it's always bugged you."

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

Cleo shrugged. "You're human. More than that, you're a witch. Your grandmother should've cleaved my head from my shoulders, if she'd been in her right mind. And I should've snapped her neck. But we didn't do that.

"How many times do I have to tell you: it's natural. I'm used to it. Your fear and discomfort do not offend me, Cordelia."

"They offend me. I know you'd never hurt anyone you didn't have to, but...argh. It just bothers me." She flopped back onto the bed. "I hate today. It's the only reason I'm even thinking about it. I need to make today worse for myself somehow, since it obviously wasn't bad enough."

"Oh I'm sure you'll succeed at that if you set your mind to it." The lieutenant opened the door. "If it'll help make your day more miserable, look at the paper there." And she popped out.

Delia rolled onto her side to cast her eyes at the trash mag now sprawled across the chair, then groaned. She was once again the headliner...and beneath the large font was a picture of her and Hastings arm-in-arm on Chancery Lane. Damn paparazzi. The article seemed to be crowing about how quickly she'd moved on from her not-so-amorous American. She let herself fall face down into the bedspread and mumbled, "Wonderful."

 

 

 

The bell hardly registered with Hastings. He had a valet for this exact reason. Well, this and to help him keep track of his socks. It was a fairly Wodehousian thing to do - the single young man of wealth and some small standing with a valet to keep his flat in order and his head on straight, but unlike Bertie Wooster, he had a very important job to do and, rather unfortunately like the wastrel in the stories, a nasty tendency not to notice things going on about him when he was doing it.

Sometimes it was all he could do not to call his valet "Jeeves."

Bernhardt opened the door to the study. Hastings looked up to inquire and was greeted with a fist to the face. He was knocked backwards out of his chair. So, not Bernhardt then, unless he was upset about his wages.

He clambered to his feet quickly, hampered by the chair. Bernhardt was just now entering the room, looking distraught, and before him, seething with clenched teeth, stood Lady Delia's American. More of my suspects need to just show up at my apartment... Richard Haverstock was clearly furious - but he wasn't doing anything else. Just standing there, glaring with the heat of a thousand suns.

"I could have you arrested for assaulting an officer of the Yard, you know," he advised his ill-tempered visitor.

The only response he got was "She's using you, you know."

He took time to take stock of his visitor's appearance. Haverstock was disheveled, wearing a loose-fitting t-shirt and jeans. He clearly hadn't shaved in a few days, and his breath was rampant with booze. Despite the throbbing pain in his cheek, Hastings was intrigued. "You're jealous of a luncheon? Hell, you're jealous at all? I should call the tabloids instead of the constables, perhaps."

"I'm warning you. You should be grateful...and not call anyone."

"Do you always warn people with a sock in the face? Remind me not to be around you when there's a fire."

"She is using you. It's the only thing she knows how to do with men."

"Sir, should I...?" Bernhardt interrupted, but Hastings waved him away. Looking affronted at all this impropriety, the valet retreated, closing the door behind him.

Haverstock just continued with his drunken ramblings. "She needs us to hide behind, to appear normal. She doesn't care about you, don't think she does! And even if she did? She wouldn't let anyone know. Oh no, she can't do THAT. Not CORDELIA GODDAMN ABNEY..."

"Now look here, I really canNOT let you talk about her like that..."

"I'm just warning you, man. I'm just saying." And he stumbled for the door.

Hastings considered going after him. He looked at his paperwork. There was nothing on Richard Haverstock to arrest him on, aside from assaulting an officer and public intoxication. There was nothing on Richard Haverstock at all so far, though his friends on the other side of the pond were still doing some legwork.

Still, it'd buy him some time. He went over to his briefcase and pulled out his handcuffs. "Mr. Haverstock..."

 

 

 

 

Ryker looked up and frowned. "I'm not...entirely surprised."

Lucius leaned against the bars. "They're processing the paperwork. The captain..." Ryker shushed him and Lucius laughed. "They're nowhere near close enough to overhear. I'm more careful than that. So, as I was saying, the captain told me not to attempt to bypass this paperwork stuff everyone has so much of this time. I could have had you out of here last night, if I'd had it my way."

"Yeah, 'cause bribing law enforcement would just be the fries in this Happy Meal." Ryker scrubbed at his face and rose from his seat in the holding cell.

Lucius chortled, "Yeah, I heard you socked Hastings in the face! GODS, I'd have paid money to see that."

"Yeah, me too." He collapsed face first against the bars and exhaled, causing the werewolf to recoil and fan the air. "I mean I was there, and I know I did it, but...I don't really remember it..."

"Couldn't you at least drink the good whiskey, Ryker?"

"It smelled better in the bottle than on my breath, I promise you."

"I doubt that. I doubt you cared too much about the quality at the time." He cocked his head to study the prisoner. "What is it with you two? You and the captain. She flies off the handle when Hastings calls her, storms around and then sends me 'round to get you."

"Yeah, well, she wouldn't come herself, would she?" he shot back bitterly. Something occurred to him. "Wait a minute..." It was only now, in his wearily hungover state, that he realized that Lucius was dressed up. Expensive suit, dress shoes, even a tie. There was a briefcase in his left hand. His hair was pulled back and he was as close to clean-shaven as he could get. "What are you supposed to be?"

Lucius grinned in amusement as he delivered the punch line. "I, dear bosun, am your lawyer. Or rather, your father's. I was in London on business for the Haverstock fortune," his voice began to lose its Eastern European flavor, became slicker and, unfortunately for the throbbing ache in Ryker's head, a little louder, "and it's a good thing too, or you'd be left to rot in the British penal system." He glanced at the door at the end of the hallway and Lucius nodded once.

He wasn't really in the mood to play pretend, but there wasn't much choice. "I'm not explaining myself to you OR Father. Just get me out of here." The door opened and a constable who was perhaps too fond of the pastries waddled down to them, flipping through a file. Ryker continued, "You know they bring you tea here instead of coffee? Who ever heard of tea for a hangover?"

"Yes, well, if you'd stop slumming it and drink yourself insensate on better booze..." Lucius drawled Bostonianly. He turned to the bobby. "Officer, may my client go now? He is, as I'm sure you can tell, in dire need of a bath."

"And some fuckin' coffee," Ryker threw in, not entirely play-acting.

"Aye, that he is, but you've gotta sign this form here, Mr. Kenneman." He presented the file to "Mr. Kenneman" who pulled his own pen out of a pocket and signed a genteel and dismissive scrawl. Satisfied by the completion of his paperwork, the constable tucked the papers under one arm and pulled out his keys. "Detective Inspector Hastings was awful nice, not throwing the book at this one. Fine to be paid at the front desk." He leaned towards Ryker and added confidentially, "Between you and I, he looks better with the shiner. Always was a bit too pretty boy and pompous for m'taste."

"Glad to have been of service," Ryker muttered as the door swung open. Under other circumstances, he might've hugged Lucius in gratitude: the cell was clean, but it was still obvious it hadn't always been, and being under law enforcement lock-and-key did terrible things to his stomach.

"You think you're out of the worst of it, boy, you wait till you see your father." Lucius all but frog-marched Ryker out ahead of him, and as they left the holding cell area and came out into the precinct proper, the TV news caught his eye. There were a couple of different televisions mounted near the ceiling, tuned to BBC 24/7. There, a typically photogenic newswoman was enunciating precisely (if mutely - the volume was turned down) into her mike as the words came up across the screen: BLACK LIONESS STRIKES AGAIN.

Ryker stopped and stared. "She didn't," he whispered. Lucius shoved him and gave him a glare, and he kept walking, but he watched the screens whenever one came within his line of sight. By the time they made it out of the station and into the rented towncar, he was fairly caught up on the crew's latest escapade.

"Did you really think the little spat between you two was the only reason she didn't come bail you out?" Lucius commented, now safely Romanian once more, as the car drove off. "She had to throw Hastings off."

"Throw him off? Wait, wait, back up. All I know is that she goes and has lunch with this guy and suddenly the papers are cooing about the two of them every time I turn around..."

"And you got jealous," Lucius supplied.

Ryker pretended to ignore that, "...and I was already drinking anyway, so at some point I thought it was a good idea to...have a talk with him..."

"And knock his lights out."

"...and so I did that and got dragged off to the nearest constabulary, where I spend a cold night on a hard slab and wake up with the WORST hangover known to mankind."

"Oh, right, about that....here." Lucius handed him a mug of something. "Drink this. We'll have some coffee when we arrive."

"Arrive where? And when do I get to find out what's going on?"

"You, lad, have an exclusive invitation to Northstead Hall."

 

 

 

He'd never been to the Abney home proper. There was something about it that struck him as very out of character for their captain. It was ancient and stately, with high stone walls. Come to think of it, that last part is spot on. Ivy clung to parts of it, and there was even a tower. Certain elements had been modernized over time, but it was still, at its foundation, a medieval fortress. It gets more and more fitting the longer I think about it.

The car pulled up through a large archway in the exterior wall; it was hard not to imagine a portcullis and drawbridge there. The courtyard was immaculately kept cobblestone around a fountain, borrowing some Continental elements in the design, though hardy English garden flowers lined the walls. Lucius got out and led the way in without preamble; Ryker hurried out after him. He scrubbed self-consciously at his hair as they just barged into the manor. Forget whether or not this place was out of character for the captain; he was most definitely out of place here. Might as well be the Yankee in King Arthur's court...

He didn't see a single other soul besides Lucius as they passed gorgeous, gilt-edged furnishings, exotic tapestries, and staid paintings of somber ancestors (or the other way around). Finally Lucius stopped outside a twin set of doors and knocked twice. "Got your visitor. Cost £100 to spring him from the lockup."

"Come in," the captain's voice enjoined. Lucius opened the door and nodded at Ryker, who felt as if he'd been transferred to a much more luxurious prison cell. She was continuing, "Take the reimbursement up with Cleo, Lucius."

He was in a study of some sort: rich mahogany desk, bookcases lining the walls. Crimson drapes pulled shut over the windows. Neo-regency furnishings, different from the rest of the place but not entirely clashing. Old style with a modern edge; he was quite definitely walking into her lair. At least St. George had Ascalon...

The door shut behind him. It might as well have clanged shut like the iron bars.

She was looking out the window opposite the door, her back to him so he couldn't get a read on her. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she was in an ivory silk blouse and navy slacks. Very genteel, very conservative - and very unlike any incarnation of Lady Delia Abney anyone had ever seen.

Dammit, I didn't get called on the carpet by my superior officer. That is NOT why I'm here, and I'm not going to act that way. He pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down to study her. Whatever Lucius had given him in the car had taken the edge off his hangover, but the headache was still lurking. "I believe I was promised coffee."

She turned to look at him. She was made up, but not to the extremes she went to for scouting parties. She seemed about ready to snap at him, but then exhaled and went to the door. She pushed a button on the panel there and asked for a pot of coffee to be brought up, then turned around and leaned against the wall. She folded her arms under her breasts and waited, staring at him.

"Oh, am I supposed to start?" he commented lazily. "I had a terrible night."

"Good, you deserved it," she shot back acidly. "Punching a detective of the Yard - what were you thinking?"

"I admit, it wasn't one of my better ideas, but my brain was pretty well pickled at the time."

"Oh yes, of course, hide behind the fact that you were drunk as a skunk at the time."

"You'd know all about hiding, wouldn't you?" THAT shut her up. Her mouth fell open but no sound came out. She just glared at him, trying to come up with a really good zinger, he could tell. "Things aren't going the way you'd like, and you run and hide behind your stone walls and your family's name."

"And you're so much better? Maybe we should take a trip back to America and see what happens when you punch policemen there, hm?" She'd found her zinger.

He wasn't entirely unprepared for that. "I don't hide my feelings. I'll admit that's gotten me in trouble in the past. But, dammit, sometimes you just have to get in trouble!"

"Not when you could end up hanging from a rope in the Tower, you don't!"

"You and I going out on a date or two is not going to get you arrested for piracy!"

A knock on the door broke up the fight. She answered it, took the tray and shut the door quickly. She set the tray on the desk next to him and grabbed one of the mugs to fill for herself. "This isn't even what I wanted to talk with you about."

"I'm sure it isn't. But it's what I want to talk about." He pondered just gulping coffee straight from the pot, then common sense took over to keep him from scalding his throat to ribbons. He filled the other mug to the top.

"Yes, well, allow me to pull rank for a moment and get us on the subject that's more important." She poured some cream into her cup and stirred it lightly.

"Hiiiiiding," he chimed in from around his mug. He was sure these were the finest, most expensive beans, hand-ground and freshly brewed, yadda yadda. He didn't care. Hot, strong, liquid wakefulness. He felt 100% better after the first sip.

She was dropping sugar cubes in now. "Stuff it. Of all the men in the world, you had to go after the worst possible one."

"Why? Because he's your new boytoy?"

"NO!" That brought his headache back to life; she was standing right next to him, and she was suddenly loud. There was nothing good about that. She apparently agreed with him and cleared her throat. When she spoke again, she was back to normal volume. "John Hastings is a very nice man - and also a very nice Detective Investigator of New Scotland Yard. The one who happens to be assigned to finding and catching the Black Lioness. And on That Luncheon Date," she informed him, "I found out that he suspects YOU have something to do with the Black Lioness. And so what happens after that? You show up at his home and deck him. Great. Just great."

He did feel a little sheepish, but not enough to apologize. "How was I supposed to know that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Trusting me? That'd be a nice start." Finally satisfied with the ratio of coffee to non-coffee in her mug, she picked it up and sipped, leaning against the desk. She looked down at him. "You're the one who's so convinced I'm stringing guys along. Why would you think I was doing anything different with Hastings?"

"I didn't. That was the thing, I was trying to tell him he shouldn't have anything to do with you." She opened her mouth to respond and he beat her to it. "No, I don't know why I did it, I was three sheets to the wind, it seemed like a good idea at the time." He drank more coffee. "I was bitter, okay?"

She swirled her coffee for a bit in thought. He just downed the rest of his and poured some more. Finally, she said, "Well, the raid on Buffy McAlister's bloody schooner should get him to change his mind."

"Yeah how'd you pull that off? And why a schooner?"

"I know, I know. Going into something like that blind was stupid. But we managed it, mostly because Buffy's an absolute airhead who hires security guys the way most women hire pool boys." When he arched an eyebrow at her, she explained, "Because she likes the way they look in their uniform." He mouthed "ah" and punctuated it with another drag of java. "They were out on a pleasure cruise to the Isles of Scilly, for some damned reason; hard to catch up with a ship that light and fast, but that's what we have the grapplers for. Once we got aboard, it was a cakewalk." She stood up properly and tugged open a desk drawer. She tossed him a pouch that jingled lightly when he caught it. "Your cut."

"Why? I wasn't even aboard."

"You're my bosun. It's less than you'd normally get, but...even when you piss me off - which is all the time lately," she added significantly, " you're still a damn fine officer." She shut the desk drawer again.

He eyed the pouch as if uncertain whether it was radioactive, then finished off his coffee and refilled his cup. "So. Damage Control?" She nodded and leaned against the desk now.

"We're still hitting Freddie's boat. But I want one more planned attack in between, so Hastings gets well and truly thrown off."

"That's a lot of time between our recon and the attack. What if he changes something?"

"He already has." She tugged a newspaper out from beneath the coffee tray and pointed out a small column. He read it over the rim of his coffee cup: the Marquess of Bristol's son had, wisely, given the increased Black Lioness activity over the last years, installed a new, top-notch security system. The captain picked up the story the paper left out. "Becca says he's gotten real paranoid. I mean, Marten's kooky sort of paranoid, but Freddie's getting computer-run gun systems. He doesn't even trust the usual security contractors."

"Is this another chance for me to bring up my pet project, Captain?" She groaned and he stood up to be able to look her in the eye. "You can't say we don't need a computer-based forward force now. You canNOT," he stabbed the paper for punctuation. "Give me Freeman in Engineering as my 2nd. The two of us together can get a team together that can crack this system."

"I don't know. I'm not sure I want Mister Freeman distracted from his duties in the engine room."

"Quite, frankly, he could use it. The man lives in the ship's engine room, and I'm not kidding about that. He may end up marrying the engine if we don't do something else with him, and he's the second-best hacker on board."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "I won't ask who the best is."

He let that slide. It was true. "Look, if everything's computer run, then we take the computer and we take the ship. And if he's really this afraid of someone getting on that ship, then there has GOT to be a nice prize in there." He grinned as her eyes lit up. "Do I know how to push your buttons or what?"

She shoved him playfully. "If you're so bloody good at it, why do you piss me off so often?" She stood up properly and paced around to the front of the desk, thinking. "Okay. Can you do it with 4?"

"Plenty."

"Alright, you've got Freeman and 2 more of your choice. I'll see if Becca can get me on board for a quick look-see around her brother's boat. I won't be able to poke around as much as normal, but at least I can look for significant changes."

He cleared his throat. "And I'm off suspension?"

"Yes, yes, alright. It's been about a week anyway. First order of business is clearly a shower and shave, hm?" She cast him a disparaging glance. He was surprised she'd held off this long, really. "And no more punching constables. John Hastings wouldn't believe I was the Black Lioness if I went around wearing a sign, but he's primed to suspect you of being a pirate. And I'm not about to lose my bosun to the gallows."

His relieved smile faded slightly. "You are just stringing him along, right?"

She frowned at him. "My personal life is no business of yours."

"Oh? It seems to be the business of all of England."

She rolled her eyes. "I am stringing him along for the sake of keeping tabs on the investigation. Allow me to soothe your wounded ego. You are now no longer the only man I have played false, I am a terrible woman, etc. Terrible woman or not, I am still your captain. Now go on. Have Burkett take you to get your things and get your ass back to the Isle and back on your job."

He tossed her an American salute. "Aye aye, Captain."

 

 

 

It was 2 AM on a chilly Wednesday a couple of weeks after the bosun's "jailhouse retreat", as Lucius insisted on calling it. The forward team consisted of Mister Everhart, Freeman from Engineering, Derricks, MacNeal, and, of course, the Black Lioness herself, kitted out in full black leather, wig and face mask. The risk of being caught on camera was too great, even here, and there was just something wrong about pirating without being in costume, to her. Naturally, her crew were masked as well, with the same type of voice-distortion get-up to help keep them unrecognizable, though they weren't made to wear clingy outfits and silky wigs.

She'd argued about the objectification of women with her Grandmother once, when the subject of the costume came up. Once. She didn't make that mistake again. She just shut up and accepted it as "tradition".

Freeman dropped to his knees outside the hangar for Freddie's sky-yacht and pulled what looked like a PDA out of his bag. His fingers flew over the keypad and Mister Everhart watched his cohort work as Derricks and MacNeal kept their eyes open for guards. The two Americans had been working furiously the last fortnight and apparently had done their hacking well, as the doors slid open and what few lights there were inside died out quietly. The usually omnipresent hum of electronic equipment faded, and they ducked inside quickly.

They waited against the inside wall for their eyes to adjust. Night vision goggles were usually more of a hindrance than a help, really: they added bulk and slowed delicate tasks like typing, lock-picking and safe-cracking. After about 30 seconds, she led them towards the airship.

Freddie's boat was rather pompously named the Ozymandias, but then, pompous, showy and arrogant was pretty much Lord Frederick Hervey to a "T". Freeman turned the PDA device over to Mister Everhart. As fast as Freeman was, Ryker was faster; she couldn't begin to follow what he was doing. This was a more complicated hack, she guessed, but it didn't take much more time. The door sighed open and they were in: no guns, no alarms. The other crewmen let out their breath; she kept hers in. They weren't out of the woods yet.

Something wasn't sitting right with her. Something was wrong. She closed her eyes and reached for a different sort of hum, one that most humans couldn't hear or sense or feel. Sure, Cleo had her pegged dead to rights on her lack of craft, but she knew magic when she felt it. But there was no magic here. So that wasn't it. She opened her eyes and waved the crew in. The sooner we're out of here, the happier I'll be. I just have a really bad feeling.

She sent the crewmembers off with Freeman to secure the bridge; they wouldn't have to hold it long with no human guards and a shut down security system, but it was tradition as much as tight leather and black wigs. Take the bridge, take the ship. She wasn't taking chances, that's for sure.

She and Ryker moved quickly to Freddie's study and began ransacking his desk and books. At one point, they looked up at each other from across the room and both shook their heads: nothing. She checked behind wall decor: no safe. He doesn't have all this security just to protect his precious boat. There has to be something. She jerked her head towards the door; he nodded and headed out. She took a last look around the study and ducked out after him. He headed for the cargo bay, and she was about to go after him when she noticed a door ajar.

Doors on airships tended to be electronically activated and sealed pocket doors, to save on space and to show off the inherent techno lust of the owners. They were the sort of things one saw on "Star Trek" and every science fictiony show since. They weren't usually left open. The sense of something wrong shot up her spine like an icicle. She let her hand fall to the knife at her hip as she approached the door.

She pressed herself against the wall to the right of the door and listened. There. Breathing. He didn't trust guards, didn't have any. She closed her eyes and considered just turning around and leaving. He's Becca's brother. And even if she is a fluffhead, she's still a friend. I don't want to hurt him. But her curiosity demanded to know what was going on.

 

The "tour" she'd taken with Becca had been abruptly cut short by the arrival of her brother, who had promptly read his sister the goddamn riot act and kicked the both of them off his boat. He'd been livid for absolutely no reason, or, at least, no apparent reason. She had to know what was going on with him, for her friend's sake, at least.

"You're quite good, you know. I didn't expect anyone to get my security systems down as quickly as your crew managed it." She opened her eyes and turned her head to the door as Frederick spoke to her. He clapped twice. "Bravo, good show. But I'm afraid the comedy ends here. I'LL not be the easy target for you that your last few victims were." Oh god, he's armed.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and then pushed herself off the wall and dove into the room, literally: she had to cross a good distance, quickly, and stay low while doing it. A blast of heat zinged over her head, but she was already rolling up as she'd been taught, the knife coming free of its holster. Another zap went past her on the right as she straightened up, red and hot and thin - lasers? She didn't have time to think about that now, she just brought the knife up between them, hoping to disable the weapon without hurting him. A hand closed on her left arm, her knife hit metal and resistance and was pushed away, and she was spinning into him, raising her elbow up sharply to clip his chin hard. He grunted and released her arm, but she was still in her spin, so this just readied her now-free left elbow to go backwards into his stomach. She heard and felt the air go out of him and moved away quickly. She was vaguely aware of an odd feeling in her right arm, and another blast of heat past her left side, but she hardly even felt that one. Aim's off a little. It seemed like only now she heard the thud, and then Ryker was in the doorway, drawing his own gun. She looked behind her: Frederick against the bookcase of the guest room they were in, down on the floor but getting back up, gun still in hand. There was a desk by the doorway. She wasn't aware of saying anything, just heard her distorted voice, "The desk!" but Ryker didn't move. He was pointing his gun at Frederick and ordering him to stay down.

Frederick stood up and stared Ryker down, but didn't raise his gun. Ryker wasn't buying it. She looked between them; she'd have to cross the line of fire to get to the desk, and it would break the eye contact. Right now, it was as good as a trip beam; she got between them, one of them would take the opportunity to shoot. Maybe both. Her right arm was unhappy with her about something, on her bicep. It was distant. Only one way to deal with this.

She threw herself towards Frederick; she was still very near to him. She tossed her knife from her right to her left hand and extended. His reaction was to try to raise his gun, but it wasn't the right response and wasn't nearly in time - the butt of her knife hit him on the bridge of his nose and he dropped like a stone. Blood trickled out of a small cut. She knelt next to him and called to Ryker again, "THE DESK!" Derricks ran up behind Ryker as he finally complied, holstering his gun and going to investigate.

"He's alive," she said thankfully.

"Dammit," Ryker muttered, audible in the small room, rifling through desk drawers.

"You alright, ma'am?" Derricks asked.

"Fine."

"It's just...you've been shot and all..."

She looked down at her arm, finally realizing what that was. However Frederick had gotten ahold of a laser gun - technology Britain nor the US currently possessed, that she knew of - he wasn't a half bad shot with it. It burned through the adrenaline fog, and she pushed her mind past it. She could whimper about it later.

"Need a key to get in this drawer," Mister Everhart relayed. She turned back to the unconscious ship owner and frisked him until she came across a brass key, small and innocuous, in one of his pants pockets. Odd, in a thoroughly modern ship, to have something like this. She tossed it to her bosun before standing and joining him at the desk.

"Mister Derricks, get Freeman and MacNeal and have them stand guard at the exit." He saluted crisply and ran off. Ryker pulled out a manila envelope, unmarked, and opened it up. He retrieved from inside it a sheath of documents that seemed, at first glance, to be covered with typed symbols neither could read but both could recognize.

"Oh shite," she breathed.

 

 

 

"You found this but didn't get any gold or pretty jewelry?" Lucius pouted when presented with the envelope. He took it and opened it up to fish out the papers and blinked. "What would a poncy Brit boy be doing with this?"

"We don't know," Delia explained again. She leaned back in her desk chair and looked around. They were safely ensconced in the Captain's Office on Darlington Isle, but she wasn't feeling very secure. "And we don't know what it says."

Lucius sank into the leather loveseat to read, flipping through pages occasionally. Ryker tossed her a look, but Cleo was just watching the werewolf read. She sat along the arm of the couch next to him to peruse it over his shoulder. Ryker started to pace towards the wet bar, but the captain shot him a warning glare and he threw his hands up and made himself sit in a chair.

"It's a contract. Your Mr. Hervey's family has...connections?" Lucius looked at his captain over the top of the document. She nodded once.

"R&D for the military, primarily the AerArm."

"AerArm?" Ryker interjected.

"Aerial Armada," Cleo explained. When Ryker's eyebrows shot up in surprise, the lieutenant looked to Delia to explain.

"We know that airplanes and helicopters are primary aerial strike vehicles, but we do still use the lighter-than-air ships for certain military objectives, mostly reconnaissance. Up through World War I, the AerArm was the primary aerial force in the Isles, and no one wants to give it up entirely. Great symbol of our now-gone dominance, etc. etc. But the Marquess of Bristol's very involved with the Army, the AerArm, the Navy, all of that. The AerArm and the veterans from that branch are his main concern, but he's got his fingers in every military pie."

She returned her attention to Lucius. "He's made a deal then?"

The quartermaster nodded. "This isn't 'officially' Russian government, but I'll bet my next share that they're working with at least the knowledge, if not sanction, of the head honchos there."

"Forget what his end is; I can probably guess," Delia said with a roll of her eyes. "But what's he giving them in exchange for his giant piles of cash, drugs and half-naked women?"

He scanned the document again. "Military intelligence. Blueprints of new weapons systems, information on which airships over Russian airspace are honest and which are secret recon, that sort of thing." He looked up at her. "You know, I thought this was all over when the Wall went down and glasnost and all that. I guess the Russians miss being scary and powerful." He flipped the pages shut and slid them back in the envelope. Every eye went to their captain.

"What do we do with this?" Cleo asked. "We can't turn him over to the police. Aside from Lucius's fingerprints now being on the damn thing..." she shot him a look which he shrugged off, "...it'll give us away: how did we got our hands on it in the first place, right? Even if you feed it to your pet detective, there'll be questions; he has to have reported the attack by now."

Ryker offered up, "You sure about that? I mean, this is all we took, and he certainly isn't going to put 'secret Russian contract branding me a traitor' on a police report."

"He has a point," Lucius interjected.

"Okay, so he's not likely to report it," Cleo continued. "But Delia can't go handing it over to the authorities. What happened: she just happened to be snooping around her best friend's brother's desk and found this? No, no. And if she did that, he'd know. He'd know right away who and what she is. He'd be put on trial for treason and in the meantime, he'd find a way to make sure the word got out that Lady Abney is the Black Lioness. We can't risk that."

"Okay," Ryker stood, "but we have to do something, right? Can't just let him go on leaking government secrets to the Russians. I mean, I know she's not my Queen, but..."

"I know, I know. Look," Captain Abney stood from behind her desk, "go get some sleep, all of you. It's nearly morning. I'll figure out what we're going to do and let you know. In the meantime, leave the envelope with me." Lucius stood and turned it over to her. "I'll think of something." The werewolf bowed and left; Ryker shot her a concerned look and departed after him.

"How's the arm?" Cleo asked.

"It's fine, but it's also something else to worry about. I mean, I was patched up fine, but the Russians had to have given him this. We can't make anything like it yet, and as far as I know the Yanks can't either. They're getting to be a threat." She looked up at her family's dearest friend. "Does it make me a coward to still be afraid of the hangman when the alternative is Russia undermining all of Britain and the United Kingdom?"

The vampire put a hand on her shoulder and smiled - without so much fang showing this time. "No, no, not at all. It makes you human. Makes you able to see and weigh the possible consequences of your actions."

"So what do I do? You've walked the earth for several thousands of lifetimes now, as you're so fond of reminding me."

Cleo shook her head. "If I knew what to do, I still wouldn't tell you. This is your decision, Del, and all I can do is support you in it." When the human sighed, she tacked on, "Your mother will be up in a few hours. If you haven't thought of anything by then, talk with her. Best advice I can give right now, I'm afraid."

"Thanks. It's good advice though. It...it's something." She patted Cleo's hand on her shoulder. "Go on." She nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Cordelia Abney sank into her chair, looked around her empty office and felt very much alone.

 

 

 

Her mother had this annoying ability to roll out of bed looking beautifully mussed. To be fair, it was only annoying because she hadn't seemed to inherit it. In the intervening hours, she'd changed into her nightgown and robe, and she presented her parents with their morning tea having been padding up and down the halls of Northstead Hall through the dawn.

"My dear, you're up early for someone who had a raid last night." Another annoying talent of Mum's: knowing exactly what her offspring was up to. This one could be laid squarely at Cleo's doorstep, she knew. She sat the tray down on her mother's dressing table and leaned against the wall. If she sat, she'd fall asleep. "I take it things didn't go well?"

"Not as well as I'd hoped. Freddie was a little short on cash and sparklies and a little long on treasonous acts against the British Crown."

Her mother, in the midst of pouring two cups of tea, froze. "You're sure?" When Delia nodded, her mother's response was to sigh. "No chance of just turning him over to the proper authorities and going on with things as usual then?" She shook her head this time, and her mother stood, abandoning the tea for the moment.

"My dear, do you remember why your grandmother started out as the Black Lioness?"

She dug around in the depths of her childhood memories. "Something about doing what was best for England, even if England didn't like it all that much?"

The Countess of Darlington nodded. "Yes. But leave off that last part, and I think you'll see what you have to do."

"What's best for England," she repeated. "Even if that means being hung?"

"Well...yes, actually. As the Black Lioness, you are in a very dangerous occupation. You could be shot, you could fall from several thousand feet in the air, any number of terrible fates to which I, as your mother, have had to reconcile myself. And hanging is one of them. But, it doesn't have to be that way."

"You just said..."

"Ah ah. I said you had to do what was best for England. That doesn't mean you can't do it while still protecting yourself. In this particular case, it's a little more difficult. But I'm confident you'll think of a way."

She sighed. "You're not going to help me then?"

"Of course I will. I don't want my only daughter going to the gallows. But I'm not doing a thing until after you've slept. You're no good to me, yourself, or the country at the moment."

"Heh. Close my eyes and think of England, then?" she commented wryly.

Her mother laughed. "Close your eyes and go to sleep, at least. And when you're rested, we'll talk. It'll be like old times. And you can tell me all about this 'Ryker Everhart' Cleo keeps telling me about. I must say, if the pictures in the papers do him any justice at all, he's very cute."

"Mum, please..." She pushed off the wall. "I need a lot more than sleep to put up with this sort of nonsense."

"There'll be tea, naturally."

"Good night, Mum." She was already headed for the door.

 

 

 

The next week found the officer corps in various less-than-happy moods. They were suiting up anyway, but there was a somber unease among them.

Ryker, for one, wasn't having it. "This is not the best plan you've ever had, Captain." He was in the official Desdemona officer regalia, which was a plain black uniform jacket with no embellishments save for some silver embroidery around the cuffs, neck and hem, and a pair of black slacks and dress shoes. His voice-distortion mask hung around his neck and a frown was firmly in place.

"You're the one who said we had to do something," she reminded him. Cleo was fixing her wig for her. She felt naked without her knife strapped to her hip, but it wouldn't do to go to this meeting armed. She envied them their dress uniforms; she was normally comfortable dressed up as the Black Lioness - as comfortable as one could be in form-clinging black leather, anyway - but the plain black and silver seemed much more respectable. "I'm the Captain. This is what I'm doing."

"Risky," was all Lucius contributed to the conversation, but his teeth were on edge. And he clearly hated his uniform by the way he kept tugging at the collar. Finally he gave up and unfastened it. When Cleo shot him a disapproving look, he answered it with a glare, and she gave up.

She was wearing a pencil skirt and high heeled boots instead of the slacks and dress shoes, but otherwise, Cleo matched the men. She pulled her mask up onto her face. "This is her decision, and if you don't like it, feel free to find another ship." She was the imperious lieutenant most of the crew knew now. Ryker suspected she'd gone into protective mode; from what Lucius had told him about her when he first signed up, she was essentially the Abney family guard dog, after all.

"I'll do everything in my power to make sure you all make it out alive," the captain reassured them.

"Dammit, that's not the point, and you know it!" Ryker shot back. The shuttle plane was landing. "None of us want to see you dead, and you're walking into this with NO guarantees..."

"And you're handing over the originals. The originals!" Lucius sounded as if he were physically ill. "We made perfectly good digital and paper copies! There's no reason to give them the actual documents!" He shot a possessive glare at the envelope that Cleo had retrieved from one of the seats, where she'd tossed it to help Delia get ready.

"It's a show of good faith, Quartermaster," she shot back, pulling her mask up over her face and securing it. "Get your mask on. We're going in." The flight crew opened the door for them and she started for the stairs. Ryker put a hand on her arm.

"I need to talk to you, alone. Just for a moment, before we go in." She nodded.

"Cleo, Lucius, wait outside." The two looked at each other then shrugged and descended, Lucius fixing his mask in place as he went. The shuttle's crew went back to the cockpit and she tugged her mask down to speak more easily. "What is it, Mister Everhart?"

He looked her in the eye. "We could be walking to our deaths."

"I know that."

"And if that's true, then there's something that needs to be done before we're dead."

She arched an eyebrow. "And that is?"

He grabbed hold of her arms and yanked her in towards him, then kissed her as hard as he could, briefly. She was so surprised, she didn't even have time to react. And when he was done, he let go of her and commented, "Now we're even." He grinned at her, pulled his mask up over his nose and mouth and ducked down the stairs. She wasn't quite sure whether to laugh or to growl, but it, oddly, steadied her nerves a little. Revenge kissing. Well, I suppose we are even after all then. She replaced her mask and descended the stairs to the courtyard.

It was nearly midnight, so the place was largely deserted and eerily quiet compared to the usual bustle of the daytime hours. "I never did get to take the tour," Ryker commented, looking around. "What with the whole 'being a criminal' and all..."

"Don't taunt the guards," Cleo suggested. "These aren't the ones the tourists love to poke at." They walked past two such guards, who eyed them carefully but otherwise moved not a muscle. Their guns and swords looked heavy with tradition and old age, but they were still potentially quite lethal.

The hallways were long and sparsely lit; everywhere there was a torch, there was a guard with narrowed eyes and sculpted frowns. Delia thought the whole world could hear her heart echoing like their footsteps, but she held her head high and looked straight ahead at the closed double doors. I'm going to walk through those doors...and I'm going to hope and pray I walk back out through them too.

The guards posted at these doors stopped them. "You'll have to remove your masks to enter. Orders," he informed them brusquely.

Ryker opened his mouth to retort, but didn't get a word out before Delia pulled her mask and wig off. Lucius stared at her as if she'd clearly gone insane; Cleo was watching the guards. They didn't react at all, except to collect her handed-over disguise. The lieutenant followed suit and so, reluctantly, did the bosun and quartermaster. Lucius was glaring at the guards as if they had personally insulted him somehow. Ryker was watching their captain.

"May we enter then?" she inquired as if she were bored of having her time wasted. He noticed one of her hands was clenched tight; she was wearing the usual black leather gloves, but he didn't need x-ray vision to know her knuckles were nearly white.

The guards nodded and the one who wasn't holding a collection of masks pulled open the ponderous door. Delia strode through impatiently, before Ryker could stop her. He wanted to. She was walking into her death, and he couldn't prevent it. All he could do was follow her. So he did.

This room was rather better lit, and was long. It might've been a simply nicer piece of corridor were it not for the throne at the far end with a grandmotherly woman in expensive clothes occupying it. Next to her on the raised dais of the throne stood the Prince Consort. There were two guards and, in front of the dais, two New Scotland Yard detectives, one of whom became increasingly and openly shocked as the pirate party approached.

"No..." Detective Inspector Hastings gasped. His superior shot him a quick glare and he shut up. It can't be. Haverstock, I knew. I didn't have any proof, but I just knew. But... He couldn't take his eyes off of her. It was hard enough normally, but to see her like this and to realize... his face burned when he thought back on it all.

The four of them stopped a couple of meters away from the detectives. Delia looked at Hastings briefly, before dropping to one knee before the throne. Lucius and Cleo followed suit and, after a moment, Ryker did likewise. She spoke loudly and clearly with her head bowed, "Your Majesty, I thank You for seeing me. I know my method of contacting You was unorthodox, and I am sorry if I caused any alarm. It was not my intent, but I didn't see much of a way around it."

The senior Detective Inspector - Marks, she believed his name was - spoke. "We would rather like to know how your people accessed the Queen's personal e-mail, but from what I understand, that's a secondary concern at the moment."

"You may rise," the Queen allowed, and they stood. Delia kept her eyes on her sovereign. "I'm quite aware of who you are, Lady Cordelia Abney. Please, do introduce your companions."

"Thank You, Your Highness." She cleared her throat and looked to Cleo. "This is my lieutenant, Cleopatra Massri. Next to her is my quartermaster, Lucius Comaneci, and this is my bosun, Ryker Everhart." Hastings's eyes narrowed and she just knew he was going to remember that name. "I have brought the documents I told You about." Cleo handed the envelope to the senior NSY man to look over. He opened them, pulled them out and flipped through a few pages before turning to nod at the Queen.

"You will, I suppose, want immunity for your crimes in exchange for bringing this information to Us? I am sure that a woman of your position is well aware of the punishment for acts of piracy against citizens of the Isles."

"I am, Your Highness, and You are correct. Immunity and, if it's not asking too much, keeping my identity a secret. I do not want to tarnish my family's name, nor inconvenience the lives of my crew."

"You think you're in a position to make demands of Her Royal Majesty?" Hastings blurted out.

"Hastings!" his superior reprimanded.

"Detectives, please," the Queen said. They shut their mouths and Hastings hung his head a little. The Queen regarded the pirates. "We must say, We didn't expect the Black Lioness to be the party girl of the scandal sheets."

"All part of the plan, my Queen," she acknowledged.

"Would you give up piracy if We let you go?"

"Yes. My crew will be disbanded and scattered. I cannot guarantee that they will not return to piracy themselves under other captains' flags, but the Desdemona will trouble the ships of the British peerage no more. The Black Lioness has always existed to do what is best for England."

"That would be most unfortunate."

Hastings actually spun to look at the Queen in disbelief, the emotion mirrored on the faces of the pirates. Marks seemed to be expecting this.

The Queen continued, "You see, We cannot act on this without acknowledging working with pirates. And that cannot be countenanced. The Black Lioness is a minor irritation, no matter what the peerage believes, but to grant her, which is to say 'you', leniency would undermine our overall position on piracy."

I'm dead, Delia thought. She lifted her head, determined to face her death with dignity, and began preparing her argument to let her crew live. But the Queen was still speaking.

"However, you have provided Us with valuable information, at not inconsiderable risk to yourself and your crew. And We are aware that there is now a larger problem. I believe the Americans," She looked at Ryker with a slight twinkle in her eye, "call it a 'bigger fish to fry'. So, We have created the following proposal:

"The Black Lioness takes her name from one of the great symbols of Britain, and so, We shall put her to work for the defense of the Isles." The Queen held out her hand and the Prince Consort placed a scroll of parchment in it, sealed with red wax and the symbol of the Crown. "We have created for you these letters of marque. It has been sometime since such a document was necessary; We had to have the proper protocol looked up for Us." She handed the scroll to a guard, who bowed as he accepted it then turned back to the assembled party.

Delia blinked as she began to realize she wasn't about to be strung up and turned into a snack for the Tower's crows. "I'm...not sure I understand..." she stammered, as the guard advanced and put the scroll in her hands.

The Queen smiled. "In short, Lady Abney, you - as the Black Lioness - are now the first aerial Privateer of the United Kingdom. Of course, We shall deny any knowledge of your actions, and if you are caught, We do expect you shall destroy the letters of marque so that they do not fall into enemy hands. But you shall spy upon, undermine the actions of, and, occasionally, attack and steal from those who mean to weaken or destroy these Isles, as We shall command you. You may take...ah, 'plunder' from enemy ships as you see fit, so long as anything relevant to the safety of the United Kingdom and its citizens is delivered to Us."

"Basically," Marks spoke up, "it's time you picked on a wider range of targets than just the British nobility." He grinned. "You'll receive assignments from and give information to Detective Inspector Hastings here; you two already have quite the rapport - or so the Sun would have me believe. Being seen together as Lady Abney and Lord Hastings will not be unusual. Friends, lovers, however you wish to play it, so long as you two can remain in contact." Hastings did not seem thrilled with this idea. "No more of this hacking the Queen's e-mail, thank you. And, of course, you will leave the peerage and their ships alone from here on out. That is to be quite understood."

She nodded, relief flooding along every nerve. "I understand, sir." She looked to the Queen. "Your Majesty, I cannot begin to thank You for this. But...if I may ask one question?" Her Royal Highness nodded, and Delia nodded her head again by way of thanks. "What will happen to Lord Frederick Hervey? You have proof of treason in Your hands, but he knows that the Black Lioness took these papers. As You have said, You cannot be seen to have made deals with a pirate, so how is he to be brought to justice?"

The Queen, in turn, looked at Senior Detective Inspector Marks, who nodded and answered in Her place. "He won't. At least, not for now. But we will certainly keep an eye on him. We're going to be having a chat with his father as well; the Marquess certainly won't be happy about this, but we can use his son to feed the Russians false information. And, someday, we'll get information on him through 'legitimate' channels - probably about the time his usefulness has come to an end. We'll try to keep things at that point discreet, for the family's sake. I'm aware that his sister, Lady Rebecca, is a particular friend of yours."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." She bowed a little and looked to the Queen. "I am Your eternally faithful subject, Your Majesty. My family and I have always been; it would pain us for You to believe otherwise."

"We've always enjoyed the stories of the Black Lioness, actually, though please don't spread that about. Your family has always done much for Our less fortunate citizens; I assume now that much of this was bankrolled from your illegal pirating?" When Delia nodded, the Queen grinned. "Splendid. Like Robin Hood! How perfect! But now you have a chance to do more for your country than ever before. We are so glad you have accepted."

"I had little choice in the matter, Your Majesty, but I am honored to be of service to England."

The Queen stood and all present bowed, save the Prince Consort and the guards. "We thank you for your service in your country's time of need. The guards will restore your masks to you. Good evening." She walked to a door behind the throne and then she and her husband were gone.

The detectives straightened up. Marks smiled. "Cordelia Abney. Real kick in the teeth, eh, Hastings?" There was no response from the junior officer but Marks didn't seem to notice. "Well, fear not. Your secret is safe with us. We should have an assignment for you soon. In the meantime, I think the Black Lioness has earned a vacation, wouldn't you say?"

"Very much so, sir." She looked around at her officers. "I think we could all use one." She looked at Hastings, who was still red-faced. "John, we have to at least pretend to get along. Is that going to be a problem?"

He looked at her. "You made a fool of me all this time, didn't you?"

Ryker commented, "I warned you." Hastings's eyes snapped to him.

"Yes. Yes, you did. I'm not sure what good you thought that would do, unless you had planned to tell me who she was - is?"

The bosun sighed. "I. Was. Drunk. I didn't say it was the smart thing to do."

Lucius looked around. "Look, this whole 'we're not dead' thing is great and all, but can we get out of here now?"

"Yes, yes. Let's go." She gave Hastings an apologetic look, nodded at Marks, and led the way back towards the doors they walked through. "Drinks are on me." Lucius grinned at the thought; Cleo was still on edge, and she suspected that'd last until they were safely home again. She clutched the letters of marque tightly, her proof to British forces that she was on their side.

Black Lioness, Defender of the Isles. It has a very nice ring to it.