She rolled her eyes. “Come with me, Satira. If you’ve been riding with this scoundrel, you could undoubtedly use a respite.”

Satira stepped away from Wilder’s hand, crushing the tiny jolt of loss under the boot of her ruthless practicality. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

“I know you would, honey.” The woman led her down the hall and up the stairs. “Ever fancied having another hair color?”

She hated herself for wondering—even for a moment—if Wilder preferred his women with dark hair.

“Not particularly. It would make for a useful disguise, though, I imagine.”

“That’s why I asked.” She stopped outside of a closed set of double doors and eyed Satira. “You’d make a pretty redhead. Nothing brassy like Juliet, but something darker.” Her hair had never been important enough for her to balk at the idea. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Mm-hmm.” Polly tapped her chin. “And clothes…”

Only two types of human women roamed the Deadlands—those whose time was rented, and those who were outright owned. A free woman who set so much as a toe across the border was all but asking to become the latter. “I think I might murder him in his sleep.”

“Bet you won’t be the first woman to try.” Polly turned and pushed open the double doors. “Though I think I have an idea that might put Mr. Harding in his place.”

“What idea is— oh.” Satira’s mouth fell open as she stepped over the threshold and into the most glorious room she’d ever seen.

Warmth radiated from the far wall, where a shining row of drums must have held enough heated water for every person in the settlement to take a bath. Elegant copper pipes had been worked into the design of the room itself, framing wide, beautiful mirrors where they ran along the wall before curving down to feed three spacious tubs.

Plants grew from copper planters in the corners of the room, with wild, exotic blossoms that reflected and multiplied in more silvered mirrors. It looked like a little slice of paradise in the midst of a hard, barren land, and her fascination lasted all of two seconds before her mind began to unravel the puzzles. Whoever had designed the room had been brilliant, and they’d turned that sharp intellect toward making a beautiful, comfortable place for women who needed a bit of peace in their arduous lives.

All she’d ever built with her knowledge was weapons. “This is… It’s beautiful.”

“Juliet’s son designed it.” Polly opened a cabinet and pulled out a white cotton robe. “He’s back east now, studying under some inventor in New York.”

As well he should be. The tiniest tug of envy stirred, but repressing it had become habit. The best apprenticeship a girl could hope for was the sort she had—informal and indulgent. “Juliet must be proud.

He must be very successful.”

“She’ll talk your ear off if you ask about him.” Polly gestured to one of the bathtubs. “Do you need help with the spigots? Some of the girls have never seen hot and cold taps before, but I’m guessing you won’t be one of them.”

Satira had almost forgotten about the promise of a bath. “No, no I can manage.” She accepted the robe and moved to a smooth wooden bench, settling herself gingerly as her abused muscles protested. “I hope.”

“Looks like Wilder’s been riding you too hard.”

If only she’d been a little more innocent, the words wouldn’t have brought fire to her cheeks. If only there was some way to convince herself that she didn’t want to ride Wilder until her knees gave out, until he took over and used all that preternatural strength and wild animal instinct to fuck her past the edge of reason.

She muttered an unconvincing denial and turned her attention to her boots, too embarrassed to meet Polly’s eyes. There had to be something aberrant about a girl who liked beasts more than decent men, but at least it offered a comforting reassurance that Wilder wasn’t anything special—even if his ego might not agree.

Polly hesitated beside the bench. “I’m sorry, do you want me to step out or stay and talk? I confess, I’m not quite sure which a woman from relatively polite society might prefer.” It was the first time in her life anyone had mistaken her as anything of the sort, and a startled laugh bubbled up. “I couldn’t say which they’d prefer either. I don’t mind talking at all, but I don’t know Wilder nearly so well as you. I only met him yesterday. I’m a bit…” She trailed off helplessly, unwilling to say the one word that seemed to fit. Witless.

Polly smiled. “Flabbergasted?”

“Yes.” Satira dropped her boot and curled her toes with a sigh. “I need a disguise that will make it easier for us to mingle with the vampires and their representatives without seeming suspicious.”

“Of course you do. You’re going to the Deadlands.”

“You have an idea?”

“Yes, I did say that.” A hint of a smile played at her lips. “There are only a few options. The best, I believe, is for you to dress and act as though you’ve hired Wilder to escort you out to the border in search of a vampire patron.”

It was impossible to keep her horror from her face. “People do that?”

“Oh, yes. More than you might expect, really.”

Perhaps Levi’s influence had instilled her with prejudices she would never overcome, because the thought made her queasy. It had been difficult enough to think that she might have to offer her neck to save Nathaniel, impossible to imagine doing so willingly. Regularly. “I think I’m more naive than I imagined.” Polly shrugged. “It takes all sorts of people to make up the world. There are those who would be equally disgusted by the thought of taking someone like Wilder to bed.” There were, and plenty of them. She’d often heard the slurs cast at her mother. “Wilder’s mentor took my mother into his house as his new moon companion. I’ve spent most of my life around bloodhounds.

They may not behave like men, but they’re trained to protect us. They fight and die for us. It’s not the same.”

“Not to you,” Polly answered with another shrug. “But perhaps to others it is. Regardless, it will make the perfect disguise.”

She eased off her other boot and set them both aside. “Then I imagine we have a great deal of work ahead of us.”

“That depends on what sort of actress you are.”

There’d never been occasion to discover such a thing. “I think we should assume I will try my best, but we might not want to rely overmuch on my ability to spin lies under pressure.” Polly grinned widely and began to assemble cosmetic items at the vanity. “Then we shall say you don’t speak a word of English, so all you have to do is look confused. Where do you wish to be from?” Satira left her kit on the bench and moved to one of the tubs, sliding one hand along the shining brass rim before reaching for the hot water handle. “I can speak a few words of German, if it helps. Not many—

please, thank you and what I assume are a few impolite curses. Nathaniel always used them when he dropped something delicate or smashed his thumb with a hammer, in any case.”

“Prussia is a suitably war-torn area,” Polly mused. “That will do nicely.”

“If you say so.” Hot water flowed smoothly from the spigot, and Satira lost interest in anything but the promise of immersing her dirty, aching body in a warm, luxurious bath. Polly continued to talk, chattering about dresses and corsets and a dozen other trivialities that would probably be very important later on.

Not now. Not as Satira stripped off her dusty clothing and climbed into a slice of paradise more magical than any weapon she’d ever cobbled together.

Perhaps she could stay in the tub forever. Forget the world where she had to save Nathaniel, where her future depended on a man trapped at a vampire’s mercy. Without her mentor, she’d be cut loose.

Abandoned. She could sketch out an ugly, brutal life trying to sell her skills to men who would discredit her, or suffer an even worse life selling her body. She didn’t even have the beauty and skills needed to aspire to Ophelia’s class.

A common whore. Like her mother.

Unless Wilder—

No. Satira forced the thought away. Such fancies would weaken her resolve. Her desperation was a tool to be used, one that could be mixed with her stubbornness and her wits, same as any of the chemicals in her kit. She’d turn herself into a weapon and unleash it on anyone who got between her and her goal.

Even Wilder Harding.


The women had been upstairs for nigh unto an hour, and Wilder had no idea how much longer he’d have to wait. “Juliet, what the hell is Polly doing up there?” Juliet lifted a crystal decanter that had proven itself full of fine whiskey and refilled his glass. “I reckon she’s dreaming up ways to torture you with low-cut corsets and a pretty little neck all bare for the biting.”

The very thought made his skin prickle and his trousers tighten. “Polly would, wouldn’t she?

Pernicious wench.”

“Mmm.” Juliet slid the glass across the bar, her eyebrows coming together as she watched him. “I hope you know what sort of game you’re playing at, venturing into the Deadlands with a little lost lamb and you watching her like a wolf who can’t wait to sink his teeth in. Maybe you should go upstairs and take a ride on someone who can handle you.”

And Satira would know exactly where he was—and what he was doing. “Don’t have time, Juliet. I’ll make it back before the new moon, though. You have one of your girls ready for me then.” Amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Only one? You must be slowing down.”

“Getting old, maybe,” he conceded.

“That so?” Juliet poured herself a whiskey and studied him, her sharp eyes seeing far too much.