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“I take this to mean you’re not in love with him?”

  “In love with him?” Vivian kicked Oakshott in the ribs. “Is that what he told you? No, I most certainly am not in love with this villainous oaf.”

  Oakshott grunted. “But Viv. I want to have lots of babies together… and to make you my wife.”

  Vivian kicked him again. “Perhaps you should’ve asked me what I wanted.”

  Jonathan smiled, impressed as always with her ferocity. When she looked up at him and smirked, his knees went to jelly. The moment felt right. Magical, even. He took a step toward her and leaned in, closing his eyes. Where he had expected to feel her kiss, he felt instead the clammy skin of her palm.

  Vivian shoved Jonathan’s face away, groaning in surprise. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  Jonathan felt himself flush. “I was only—I mean, I—”

  “That was a gesture rather unbefitting a gentleman-officer.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, I know.”

  “This is unbelievable,” Vivian said. “Two propositions in one week? As if I’m some simpleminded plodder who needs to be told what I want and when I want it? What gives either of you the right? Everyone in the world seems to think I fall in love with every half-wit who crosses my path—including you, apparently.”

  “I don’t think you’re in love with me. I just… I thought—”

  “You thought? You thought? I refuse to believe it. You haven’t thought once since I’ve known you. And for a while before that, I’ll wager. Did you even stop to think of whom you might be hurting to do such a thing?”

  Jonathan was astonished. Did Vivian know about Lydia, too? There was nothing between him and Lydia but a growing friendship. What would make Vivian think there was more?

  Vivian was, of course, referring to Misty. “Oh, what difference does it make?” she said. “Even if—” She cut herself off and looked away, thinking of her sister. Regardless of how she felt about Jonathan, she would never stoop to something so low as to betray her own flesh and blood.

  Jonathan tried to meet Vivian’s gaze. “If what, Vivian?”

  She was quiet for a moment. When she looked at him, there was nothing in her eyes but iron resolve. “I presume you’ve got this situation under control,” she said, brushing Lawrence’s neck with the tip of her blade.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do take care, Jonathan. I hesitate to offer you any more advice than that.” Vivian sheathed her sword and left the tavern.

  Jonathan might’ve gone after her, had it not been for Oakshott. As it stood, his prisoner needed to be booked with the local constabulary on charges of impersonating an officer of the Regency, assault with a deadly weapon, and reckless endangerment, among others. “Mr. Martingale. Call the constables, if you please.”

  The barkeep stood, looked around in horror at the state of his establishment, and hurried off to fetch his radio.

  ***

  The tribesmen were sitting cross-legged around a great fire. Using paint that smelled of chalk powder and bird droppings, the shaman began to smear oily white patterns across Poleax’s bare chest. Earlier, they had wafted fragrant smoke into their faces from a dish of burning embers. Poleax was having trouble remembering anything that had happened since. He was wearing only his knickers and a crown made of leaves and feathers. There were clay beads woven into his hair, and it hurt between his nostrils where someone had pierced his nose with a sliver of bone.

  His problems were far away. The island had swallowed him up as if in answer to his need. For the first time in years, he felt as though he could relax.

  Longworth Cotton had been a mistake. Not at first. But as the business grew, so too had the temptation to use it as a front for his illicit activities. Poleax’s two partners had facilitated its growth, both as a legitimate business and as a link in an under-the-table smuggling chain. What Poleax had underestimated was his ability to cut ties with them and take the business in a more upstanding direction.

  His superstitions and compulsions were nothing new—Poleax had practiced certain ‘habits’ all his life. As he spun his tangled web of deceit ever wider, those habits had begun to multiply along with his stress level. He never operated on the thirteenth day of the month, no matter how urgent. He made payments only in multiples of five. He was convinced that only by running his business according to his rigorous system of superstition would he experience continued good fortune.

  For a time, his partners took up the slack whenever his quirks made it difficult for him to function normally. When they were imprisoned and he cut them out, he quickly realized that the degree of control he felt he needed was unattainable. Ultimately, his superstitions were his undoing.

  Here in the jungles, living with the aboriginal peoples of these islands, Poleax felt he could let go of his inhibitions and forget that need for control which had crippled him for so long. He was finally free. He wanted to remain here forever. Yet no matter how the time passed, he never stopped thinking about Peters and Morrison, or the fact that the last thing he ever wanted to do was come face to face with either one of them ever again.

  What he wanted even less was to endure another day of Ben Caine’s disrespect. Having come to Ben for help in his hour of need didn’t make Poleax a lesser man. Yet Ben had been treating him that way ever since.

  “I’ll tell you,” Poleax said to the tribesman sitting beside him. “He treats me worse than his daughters. I bend over backwards for him. But do I get a single ounce of respect from any of them? Not a one. The least they could do is start pronouncing my name correctly.”

  The tribesman said a few words Poleax didn’t understand.

  “It’s Poleax. Po. Lea. How difficult is that? The x is silent, you see. But no, they never get it right. They pronounce it as though I’m named after some ancient long-bladed weapon. The Caine side of the family can never be expected to do anything which inconveniences them in the least. They’ve always been that way.”

  The tribesman grunted.

  “Po. Lea. Poleax. The x is silent, you see. You don’t say it. How difficult is that? Poleax.”

  The tribesman blinked, then turned back toward the fire.

  ***

  On the day after Isaak Morrison was released from prison, he pulled up to the shop front at 525 Riverbrook Lane in Tolgrade to find the interior dark and the windows dirty. The outlines of the words LONGWORTH COTTON were still visible on the windows. He paid the driver, emerged from the vehicle with his scant few worldly possessions in hand, and rubbed a circle in the grimy glass with the heel of his palm.

  The interior was not only dark; it was completely deserted. Empty boxes and dusty furniture lay overturned along the hollows of the room. Morrison scratched his head and looked around. Up until a moment ago, he’d been in a very good mood. The sight of the office in such a state distressed him very much indeed. He supposed it was time to speak with the landlord and find out what had become of Poleax Longworth.

  Afterword

  Thanks for reading Episode Four of Skyjackers. If you’re enjoying the series so far, be sure to leave a review so you can let me and others know what you think. For access to advance copies of my latest works, along with a free Starter Library of my most popular titles, join my official Readers’ Group.

 

 

  J.C. Staudt, Skyjackers

 

 

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