Excerpt

The tent flap swished open and Ever shielded her eyes from the glare. Her second-in-command eased inside. “We’re behind schedule, Catherine. Where have you been?”

Stripping out of the simple tunic and pants the border guards wore in the desert, the curvy brunette shrugged. “Jaye announced her engagement. It was all I could do to get the other women back to their tents to change.” She raised a brow as she looked at Ever. “I’m surprised she gave the news without you there.”

“Jaye knows I do not approve.” “Of men or marriage?” Ever’s fingers deftly slid buttons through the

decorative loops on her jacket. “I have never discouraged the pursuit of sex. Without some release, we’d all go mad.” She twisted her long hair up and pinned it. “Marriage is another matter entirely. A distraction.”

Catherine’s hand fell on her shoulder. “Queen Lavinia has brought us the closest thing to peace the Badlands has seen since the Union first began sending prisoners into exile. If any of us are to find happiness, now is the time.”

“That you equate men with happiness proves you don’t understand anything.” She shrugged off Catherine’s grip.

“Not all men who live here are criminals.”

With one hand on the flap, Ever paused. “That is only because we do not provide them the opportunity.”

She stepped outside, hoping the brutal desert air would scour away some of her irritation.

For seven years, she’d patrolled the borders, capturing the men sent across the Mississippi—or killing them if necessary. She’d seen the true heart of evil. It made what Queen Lavinia and her predecessors created out of the harsh mountains and deserts all the more precious. Even the natives respected the Badlands and all it stood for: honor, loyalty, obedience, and above all the power of women. Ever would proudly give her life to protect the fragile peace of her homeland.

Divided loyalties had no place along the borders.

Ever paced outside the tents, waiting for her troops to gather. With a grimace, she tugged at her snug formal jacket. The uniform was ridiculous. She could barely move; this wasn’t the attire of a Badlands warrior. Even with nothing beneath, it was too tight. At least these state dinners only came around once or twice a year.

Minutes ticked away as sweat began to dampen the fabric. She refused to give the women under her command any longer. It was time to go.

Ever opened her mouth to bellow the order when a shrill noise pierced the still air of the Painted Desert.

The siren. Eyes wide, Ever yelled, “Weapons! Now!”

She ducked back into the tent. Catherine had already slid her knives into their sheaths and slung a rifle over her shoulder. “Drill?”

Ever shook her head. Queen Lavinia might have a strange sense of humor, but she would never sound a drill without announcing it to the senior officers.

“The prisoners then?”

“Perhaps.”

Ever hated to consider the implications. Thequeen’s southern fortress housed the worst of the criminals the United States sent over the border. If they’d truly escaped...

She could only hope some overzealous steward sounded the alarm due to an uprising inside the cells.

But she had to assume otherwise.

She tore off the jacket and strapped on her weapons belt. Instinct told her not to waste time with anything else—with her tight, high breasts, she could fight naked if she had to. Crossbow flung over her shoulder, she dashed from the tent.

The rest of the women waited in various stages of undress but all were loaded with weapons. Ever nodded at them and they raced toward the fortress, their feet pounding out a rhythm on the packed sand. Spooked by the siren, horses would take longer than traveling on foot.

They reached the outskirts of the protected field in minutes, but it was too late. Men with weapons swarmed the area. For every one her women cut down, Ever counted two more taking their place. Some wore uniforms—clearly soldiers—but others were in the rough cotton supplied to prisoners.

A woman—a cook by her dress—dashed through the field. A man in faded indigo prison garb raised a rifle and shot her in the back. The woman’s fingers brushed Ever’s outstretched arm as she fell, her eyes wide. Ever lifted her crossbow and sent a bolt flying into the man’s skull. She reloaded with one hand and picked off a soldier with her pistol.

“There are too many,” Catherine yelled.

Through the gun smoke, the bulk of a dirigible revealed itself. Even if Ever knew how many prisoners the fortress housed, she couldn’t guess the number of soldiers carried by a ship that size.

“Just continue fighting. We need to know who survived.” Ever pushed forward and downed another prisoner, even as her sheer skirts caught on a fallen weapon and tore.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she spun, her pistol raised. Catherine blocked the weapon’s progress, her eyes downcast. “A stable hand made it out. He says the queen is dead.”

Ever froze, refusing to accept the words. “That is not possible.”

“You have to go. It’s your duty.”

Order in the Badlands depended on a ruler. Once word of the queen’s demise spread, those outside the military would scatter and hide. It was only a matter of time before the escaped prisoners began taking over. Snapping out of her reverie, Ever met Catherine’s eyes. “You are in charge here. Kill them all.”

As much as she hated to turn her back on the fight, Catherine was right. Ever raced from the smoke and death, hoping her women would make it out alive.

Wind-blown sand scoured her bare arms and torso, making her curse the decision to discard the too-tight jacket. Though her skirts were torn and streaked with the blood of both friends and enemies, at least they offered her legs some protection. After tucking what she could of the fabric out of the way, she yanked the goggles from her belt and strapped them over her eyes.

The mountains towered before her. She needed to lose herself in their crags and shadows. After a furtive glance behind, she tucked her pistol back in its holster, secured her crossbow, and began the ascent. Ever had climbed these rocks since she was six years old—far too young to understand how dangerous the ascent was, but already far too stubborn to care. Even knowing the mountain, though, the jagged rocks threatened to slice her hands with every hold.

Sweat leaked through a weak spot in the seal against her skin and slipped into her eye. She blinked fiercely, fighting for sight against the burning. The toes of one foot on a narrow hold, she practically dangled from her right hand as she jerked the goggles down and wiped her face.

There, three inches higher, was a hold for her left foot. The soft leather covering her toes caught the new ledge as the one beneath her right shattered with the echoing refrain of a gunshot.

“Stop right there, ma’am. No need for more killing.” The voice was young—some soldier just following orders.

Ever’s arm strained to hold on as she glanced back to judge his location. “If I do not move, I will fall. Whether you pull the trigger or not, it will still mean my death.” Her biceps quivered and sweat poured down her back, dripping under her belt. He must’ve seen her weapons, known she was a warrior.

“All right, ma’am, find your footing and climb back down.”

A slow smile curved onto her face. “Thank you.” As she pretended to look for a handhold, Ever let her foot slip from the rock. She screamed and threw her body to the left, twisting as she fell. Her left hand snagged on the hold as her right pulled the pistol from its holster and fired.

Through the smoke and dust, the soldier—barely out of his teens from the look of his unlined face— raised a hand to his throat. Blood poured from the hole there, collecting in his cupped palm. Shock was writ large across his features, mouth gaping, eyes wide as he fell to the ground.

Ever’s shoulder burned, and a sharp protrusion sliced against her arm. Sticky redness oozed from the cut, dripping down her biceps. Feeling around with her feet, she eventually managed to take the pressure off her strained joint. She tilted her gaze skyward. The flat that had been only five feet away now taunted her from more than twice that. She bit her lip and shoved the pain deep. Someone would come looking for the soldier soon. Only distance and height offered her protection. She re-holstered the gun and renewed her search for a handhold.

Two hours later, with storm clouds rolling in and painting the sky in yellow-tinged shades of gray, Ever reached an outcropping and settled onto a boulder, a stone arch at her back. As a child, she’d called this her throne and dyed patches of the rock in the pattern of warrior tattoos. Now, fifteen years later, her body sported many of the same designs. Her eyes welled up remembering how her mother had beamed with pride when she received her first mark.

Ever dashed the tears away with the back of her hand, pulled out her oculars and pushed a spring. The machine came to life, ratcheting from a flat brass oval to a pair of dual lenses. Ever shuddered. She’d heard tales about what the clockwork technology of the United States was capable of and it terrified her. Even this outdated contraption made her skin crawl. With care, she focused them on the fortress. Soon, the storm would destroy all visibility, and she had to be sure.

The airship was there, tethered outside the walls. They had executed the attack flawlessly, landing outside, just as the supply ship would have. The gates would have opened wide, expecting traders. Instead, the gatekeepers had been met with death.

She searched the dirigible for identifying marks. Her eyes watered, but Ever was certain she’d seen blue. Not Texas then. She blinked and looked again, squinting to make out the symbols. Not the Confederates either. The ship bore the stars and stripes of the United States.

Her teeth ground together, sealing her mouth against the curse she wanted to voice. Ever wished she could kill them all.

She shifted her oculars to the left. There. In front of the gates, for all who remained to see, stood a pike topped by Queen Lavinia’s head. Dried blood coated the rough edges around her neck and gore stained the ground. Yet, even in death, the queen’s face was a mask of serenity. As though she knew Ever survived and had already begun the quest to bring Princess Laurette back to take the throne. The curse that she’d bitten back died as her throat constricted painfully.

No. There would be time to mourn later. Duty came first.

Because one thing was certain—whoever attacked the fortress wouldn’t stop with Queen Lavinia’s death. The release of the prisoners attested to that. If someone wanted to destroy the tenuous peace in the Badlands, the first step would be destruction of the royal line. All of it. If Ever didn’t find the princess first, she’d be as dead as Lavinia, and the Badlands would never be the same.

Activity near the airship caught her attention. Men ran to and fro, slicing through tethers, making her wonder what had them spooked. None of the desert beasts could withstand firepower of the sort they’d brought. Something else then. Something...

Soft thunder had covered the sound, but there, the higher pitched rumble of steam engines. Ever stood and twisted around. A second dirigible crested the craggy peaks. Its markings were familiar; it was one of their usual cargo ships. Dark Hawk. Yes, this ship had brought supplies many times.

Her mind shuffled pieces around. Clearly, the ship on the ground knew the Dark Hawk was approaching. She’d intended on waiting until night to rappel down and take a horse. But that way would take her days to reach Texas, much less find transport to the north. Her new plan had risks to both the Dark Hawk and herself, yet there was no question regarding the fate of the dirigible’s crew if they landed. A handful more deaths wouldn’t stop the men who had slaughtered their way through the fortress.

Ever grabbed her knife, cut a swath of fabric from her skirt and secured it to a bolt. Dehydration and exhaustion made her fingers clumsy. It took three tries before she managed to tie it properly. As soon as she had the bolt loaded into her crossbow, she took aim and let fly. The first signal flew low and she swallowed a cry of frustration. Her hands shook as she tore off another strip. By the time her traitorous fingers attached it to a new bolt, the cargo ship hung in the air above her. There was time for one final shot. After that, any warning would come too late.

She took aim, inhaled deeply then let the breath whoosh from her lungs. The crossbow fired; the bolt arched up and sailed right across the bridge windows, trailing its ribbon of white.

If they didn’t see that, it was back to the original plan.

Ever’s arm fell heavily to her side. She’d never felt so tired. The rocky throne looked more comfortable than she’d thought possible, the sun setting behind the clouds bathing the base in strange red-hued shadows. Ever tilted her head to the side, staring, then gave it a fierce shake. The world swam around her and she staggered backward, her heels teetering on the edge of the outcropping, a three-hundred-foot drop the only thing waiting to greet her. She glanced at her bow, wondering why it was so much harder to lift now. Her left arm ran slick with blood from where she’d cut it on the climb up.

Ever blinked. How could she forget something so basic as binding the wound? She shook her head again, bringing on a fresh wave of dizziness. Intent on staunching the flow of blood, she lifted a foot to step toward her throne, but the bow threw her off balance. She tried to catch herself...and stepped backward. The world tipped beneath her then disappeared as she fell into the abyss.

Just this one last trip and she’s finally mine. Captain Spencer Pierce stared out the window of the bridge, lost in his thoughts. Ten years ago, he’d signed himself over to a life of indentured servitude in order to earn ownership of the Dark Hawk. Almost a third of his lifetime spent locked into a contract with a bastard who barely paid a living wage and argued over even the most basic repairs needed to keep his crews safe.

Deliveries to the Badlands included hazard pay, and Spencer signed up for every one he could, knowing true safety would only come when he finally owned the ship. Besides, since they’d never had to make a forced landing, they’d never run into any of the prisoners on the plains. The biggest hazards his crew had faced were the ones they created for themselves.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the image of Elsbeth’s dying moments. One more run and she’s ours, El. Just like we planned. When he opened his eyes, he caught an unexpected glimpse of something far ahead.

“What in the blazes?” He directed the Dark Hawk’s telescopic viewer toward their destination, the southernmost Badlands fortification. There, in front of the gates rested another ship, men already preparing her for departure. He snapped the viewer shut.

“Something amiss, Cap?” Mahala asked, striding onto the bridge.

He raked a hand through his hair then waved toward the fortress. “Some danged mess up. There’s another ship here already.”

Mahala slithered her spare frame into the pilot’s seat. “That don’ seem right. This been your run for a couple-a years now, ain’ it?”

Spencer hated it when Mahala got nervous. Afraid of some sort of reprimand, she would slip back into her slave speech patterns, reminding him of her past. He’d found her just north of the Confederate border at the same time the bounty hunter had. A little cash— and staring down the barrel of Spencer’s pistol—had convinced the other man to give up the search for the escaped slave. Mahala had been with his crew in one form or another since then, but he wanted both of them to be able to forget how she came to be there. “It has been. This is probably that dag-blamed senator messing with me so I can’t pay off the damn contract.” Spencer clenched his jaw. “I don’t care. I’m making the run. They can figure it out on the other end—after I own my ship.”

He fussed around the bridge, pulling levers to tilt the Dark Hawk’s massive sails.

“Cap? I think I saw something.”

After setting the new sail angles, Spencer pulled on the brass locking mechanism, grunting as it refused to budge. Again. “What kind of something?” He hissed and pulled harder.

Mahala caught his eye. “The kind you might want to see if it happens again.”

Spencer whacked the lever with the flat of his hand and marched over to the window. “What am I looking for?”

“I only caught a quick look. Might’ve been a bird.”

“I don’t have time for birds.” He turned back to the lock.

“Ain’ never seen a big white flying critter in the Badlands, though.”

The words made him return to the window. When he’d started making runs this way, he’d taken time to study the region. Mahala was right, there shouldn’t have been anything like that in these skies. After several seconds of staring into the dusk, he was ready to chalk it up to her imagination. Then he saw it. An arrow with some sort of tail attached.

He flipped open the viewer and twisted it in the direction the projectile came from. An injured and bloodied woman stood atop one of the jagged peaks, a cache of weapons strapped to her naked torso. Spencer turned to Mahala. “Get Zeke. Now! Tell Henri we’ve got wounded coming aboard.”

As Mahala dashed off, Spencer returned to the levers, readjusting them to a slow vertical decline. He hung from the lock, battered it with his fist and prepared to kick it when Zeke walked in.

The taller, broader man elbowed him out of the way, hit the lever on one side, then the other, and pulled it down. “Is that what you needed?”

Spencer shook his head. “There’s a woman down there. She’s hurt. You’re going to need to haul her up.”

“Will do, Cap’n. Just hold her as steady as you can.” Zeke handed his hat to Mahala as she reentered the bridge. “Take care of that for me, little lady.” He winked at her and strode off the bridge.

“Is this smart?” Mahala asked with a raised eyebrow as she tossed Zeke’s hat into the corner.

As they descended, the peaks closed in. “Probably not, but I can’t think of any good reason for her to be there bleeding, except trouble.” He angled the viewer. They were coming down on course. Just a bit lower

and they could—

A squeaky rubbing pulled him away from the viewer and back to the controls. He twisted the levers to maintain their altitude. They couldn’t go any lower, rocks were already pressing into the sides of the dirigible. Too big a tear couldn’t be fixed in the air, and they’d hit the ground too fast for repairs to be helpful.

“That’s the best we’ve got, Zeke,” Spencer yelled, racing for the hatch.

Zeke nodded and started to lower himself through the opening. His brow furrowed for a moment and he glanced at Spencer. “Change of plan, Cap’n.” Zeke twisted and pushed off from the opening, the rope around his body pulling at the coil on the deck.

Spencer rushed for the hatch. Below him, the woman teetered on the edge of the cliff. As he watched, she lost her footing and fell backward. Only Zeke’s dive allowed him to fall fast enough to catch her. The rope continued to slide through the hatch. As soon as Zeke had the woman, Spencer grabbed the reel brake, slowing their descent until he had to stop it entirely before the rope ran out.

“Noah!” He couldn’t manage the reel and pull them inside on his own.

In seconds, the lanky repairman was at his side, face covered in soot. He grabbed the reel and took over rolling the rope up. Spencer returned to the edge. The rope scraped against the opening, tiny bits fraying before his eyes. He risked a glance down. Though Noah had been winding the reel as fast as he could, Zeke was still more than twenty yards below the deck.

Spencer grabbed a brass rod and held its smooth surface between the rope and the sharp lip of the hatch. The metal bucked against his hands, but he held fast, the lip slicing into his fingers as he gripped. At last they were close enough. Spencer threw aside the bar and strapped onto the deck, his torso dropping through the hatch.

“Woman after my own heart,” Zeke yelled. “Even dying, she wouldn’t let go of her toys.”

With an angry growl, Spencer snatched the crossbow from the woman, beautiful even through the layer of dirt and the black markings of her tattoos, and threw it behind him. When he reached to take her from Zeke’s grasp, she refused to take his hand.

“Easy,” Zeke said, his voice almost lost on the wind, “I can’t get you up like this. Let him help.”

Her disdainful expression didn’t change, but she grasped Spencer’s wrists at last. He struggled to hold on, her grip weak and one arm slick with blood. More hands reached down, Noah having left the reel, and helped pull the woman up and over Spencer’s head. He eased his chest back onto the deck.

The rope inched its way up. Zeke’s fingers could almost grab the rim of the hatch when the fiber snapped. Spencer plunged through the opening and grabbed the bigger man by the wrist. Zeke’s weight pulled on his arm; tendons fought not to tear. Finally, Zeke caught his other hand. Noah dragged them up by Spencer’s ankles.

With everyone safely on the rough wooden deck, Spencer turned over and faced the woman, wincing as he landed on his aching arm. “Now, what the hell were you running from that you almost got yourself killed up there?”

Her green eyes rolled, eventually focusing on him. In that moment, the rest of Spencer’s world disappeared, the dying woman all that remained. Her tongue seemed to twist around the words, “Our fortress was attacked. The queen is dead. Tell your captain to flee before they pursue.”

Spencer locked gazes with her. “I am the captain.”

She stared at him and sputtered, laughing. “Then we are doomed.”