Valeria Read online

  Cover Copy

  Sometimes, ya just gotta let your hair down.

  Mache Harcming is an airfoil pilot having a bad day. Forced to make an emergency landing on an unmarked dirigible, he discovers a genius inventor, Valeria. She is beautiful, fascinating, and unlike any woman he has ever known before. She’s also dangerous. Mache is certain if the CEO of her company, Elthgo Inc., discovers his presence aboard her aircraft, he will die.

  But Valeria begs him to stay. And stay he does, hiding in the vents of the airship whenever the CEO visits. How can he refuse such a beautiful woman? More importantly, how long will the ruse last before he’s found out?

  WARNING: Brief torture scene.

  Highlight

  It was somewhat mesmerizing to watch her scrutinize the movements of the plane’s wings and tail. Her good eye was scrunched, the skin puckered around her eye patch. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked in her element.

  “It’s like a bird’s,” she said.

  Mache blinked. Instead of studying the dash he’d been studying her. Whoops. “Uh, what is? The plane?”

  “Yes. The wings move like a bird’s. The tail too.”

  “Yeah. Albatrosses and seagulls. They’re the best gliders and the airfoils were made to mimic them.”

  “Albatross?” She asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s a huge bird, with a wing span of something like two or three meters. It can go for miles without ever once flapping its wings.”

  “Some of the birds of prey do it too,” she said. “The eagles.”

  “Right. Most flying schools are named for one or the other.” He quirked a lip. “Then again, who would ever go to the Sparrow Flying School?”

  “I would,” she said, grinning. “I like sparrows.” Mache blinked, feeling caught. Valeria giggled. “I get it,” she offered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I’m joking.”

  “Oh.” Mache said, blinking at her. “Right.”

  Valeria

  Kaitlin R. Branch

  Dedication

  To my mother, my first reader, and my father, my first editor.

  Forward

  To adapt fairy tales is a long and varied tradition. The best part is that it never really gets old. We tell these stories over and over again for a reason. They are familiar, comforting, even when given a fresh face. Valeria is a part of this tradition, as an adaption of the classic fairy tale Rapunzel into the world of Steampunk. I hope that you enjoy this adaption of the Grimm’s tale about love as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Acknowledgements

  This being my first published book, there’s a lot of people that I need to thank, but I’ll try to only ramble on a little while.

  Mom and Dad, I know that sometimes you wonder where in the world I got this whole obsession with writing from, but I think it’s pretty obvious, myself. After all, you’re the ones who read me Lord of the Rings and Jurassic Park before bed time, took me dancing, singing, and generally stuffed about as much creativity into me as any kid could wish for. Thanks.

  Sarah, despite all that Mom and Dad did, this is still all your fault. You know how much I love you for it.

  Julie, thank you for introducing me to Steampunk, and letting me play sandbox in the world of your books. Let’s try not to kill these two characters, ok?

  Michael, my husband, the milk to my cookies, the peas to my carrots, and the Damien to my Eritta, thanks. I love you.

  Chapter 1

  Mache Harcming decided that the land was God’s greatest creation. More varied than the sea, more colored than the sky, it was a patchwork culmination of everything beautiful about the world.

  Unfortunately, it was going to kill him.

  “No! No, no, no. Not that sound.” The bell continued alerting him with polite rings that his airfoil had gained critical momentum. He would soon be making good, squishy friends with the ground.

  “The boss’s gonna kill me,” he moaned, refusing to acknowledge that unless he quickly came up with some way to fix the issue, he would not have a boss or a body to kill. The sleek silver craft didn’t reply other than dinging at him some more and Mache finally found the problem. One of the turning foils was jammed, shoving the nose down and refusing to budge.

  Mache jiggled the controls. Nothing. He tried waggling the airfoil. Sometimes it was a bit of sand in the gears and the wind’s direction change would jimmy it out. He only gained downward momentum and Mache’s inner ears buzzed with the special sort of panic when one’s life flashed before his eyes.

  Who the hell checked this thing out before he’d taken off, anyway?

  Oh. Right. He had.

  “Goddamn glider,” he grumbled and reached out, struggling to lay his hand on the device and budge it a little, just enough for it to respond to the controls again. The air began to whistle around him as his movements jiggled the craft into a steeper dive. He gulped, pressed on his flying goggles and leaned forward.

  His finger barely brushed the edge. He grasped it briefly, then lost it. Growling, he ripped off his glove and tried again, gaining purchase this time.

  With a whoop of triumph Mache pulled, let go and pulled again. If he could get it out of the dive he could probably use some creative flying to get himself to the ground safely without jamming it again. Maybe?

  The offending edge of the airfoil cracked off. Mache stared at the piece of layered aluminum in his hand.

  “Shit.”

  They’d always told him the airfoil gliders were brittle, but to be broken by hand? What kind of operation was this? Maybe he needed a new job. Clearly, delivery services were going to get him killed.

  Miraculously, the foil came out of its dive, leveling off. The pressure bell stopped ringing and Mache gulped as he saw how much closer the ground was now than when he’d started. He leaned back, smoothed his kid leather jacket, readjusted his goggles and took the controls.

  “Hell,” he sighed. “I guess I’ve had my brush with death for the day.”

  Still, how was he going to get anywhere? He had a chance of getting to the ground. It would be a better bet to do an air landing, though. Less clattering around, less scaring folks, less embarrassment. He looked up, scanning the skyline and the ground below.

  Under him was the great, sprawling city of Stuttgart. At least he’d avoided crashing some rich lady’s tea party. He’d take blessings where he could find them. Around were the various short range gliders with less insulation than his cross-country one, and their base point dirigibles, complete with drop points and hang lines.

  I’d rather you crash the damn thing in a river than make me pay the fees an emergency landing would cost. The boss’ verbatim response to a trainee’s question boomed through Mache’s mind and he winced. Okay, not one of those. The boss was right. The fees were exorbitant but people stuck in situations requiring an emergency landing, such as the one he was in at the moment, didn’t have a whole lot of choices.

  Mache chewed his lip. Flying on would get him to the destination but he needed to land eventually and Stuttgart was close. There had to be something independently owned. Even a private craft that would let him land long enough to jerry-rig a fix so he could get to the ground would do. His gaze swept the surroundings again.

  Delivery company. Military. Military. Another delivery company. Post. Travel agency. All churning through the air in lazy circles around their designated air space. Mache huffed. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come on, somebody’s gotta have an unmarked one.”

  He looked ahead again and nearly jumped out of his seat. Dead ahead and coming up fast loomed a dirigible. Where the hell had it come from? He wrenched the controls, thanking every lucky star he could think of that his right-left maneuverability was fine, and the airfoil lofted past the slow-moving gian
t. Mache stared in mute awe. The dirigible was huge! He counted at least four floors to the main area, and the engine took up half of it.

  Who the hell owned it? Mache turned back to look.

  Blank. Nothing.

  Mache wrenched the controls again to circle back, whooping. Problem solved. Even if they weren’t particularly nice, all he needed was a space. If he was lucky it would be abandoned right now–he could get in, fix the issue, and get out.

  “Ah, my dear friend and comrade,” he addressed the ship as the airfoil wheeled around, making a beeline for the dirigible’s landing deck. “Your timing is impeccable.”

  It was a rather nice-looking landing deck, though it seemed to be open on all sides. How strange. Even the best pilots could zip through instead of landing properly. It was best to have a wall, just in case. No matter, it must be the landing deck. Where else would someone put it?

  He continued to think it was the landing deck until he saw the tell-tale glitter of glass between him and the expanse of flat space. And then he saw the inside, hung with velvet and a chandelier. Nice and a chandelier were two different things.

  Mache wasted a lot of breath swearing as he shoved the controls to put the airfoil’s nose to the ground. Of course, he’d broken that particular air-fin in an effort not to die. More cursing.

  He didn’t have time to think. Turning away at this point would only put him in danger of smashing in sideways, landing upside-down or worse, not getting in. Mache threw his hands over his head, pressed his head to his knees and tried not to think how much money this was going to cost, to say nothing of his life.

  The glass shattered. Mache’s head slammed into the controls and he grunted, staying in a tight ball as his airfoil shuddered to a stop. He felt the teeter as the massive dirigible righted itself from the crash again. No explosions–that was a good thing, right?

  The dirigible teetered again. Mache frowned. The thing was huge. Why was it swinging from his tiny impact? The glass hadn’t even put up a fight. He sat up, peeking over the lip of his airfoil. Dead silence, except the wind hissing against the broken glass shards like an angry snake. He sat up. The airfoil shifted.

  He was in a large room. It looked like a ballroom, where he imagined ladies sweeping across the floor in their voluminous skirts and corsets. The floors were diamond grill in some places and smooth bronze in others. The interior walls were lined with rich-looking woods, fit perfectly and hung with velvet curtains in deep red. The curtains were chained with golden links leading to the chandelier. It was a work of art. Copper and gold wire cradled delicate glass drops, rods and gears. It was lovely even when in shadow. He wondered if it lit. There were no candles. The ceiling was riddled with vents and pipes, adding to the majesty of the room.

  In his reverie he almost didn’t notice when the airfoil shifted again. Mache sucked in his breath, eyes widening as he realized what was going on. Slowly, he turned his head. “Please be wrong,” he pleaded with himself. “Please, please, oh shit.”

  The window was reinforced with heavy steel straights which had been invisible against the floor. The airfoil’s wings were crumpled like paper, but the iron rods giving them structure and shape were only folded in. The front half of Mache’s airfoil was in the dirigible and the back half hung over the city of Stuttgart.

  The wind buffeted the tail. Mache felt the airfoil shift again. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” he groaned, and slowly pawed at his feet. Out came his satchel, out the small packet of food and the extra clothes. He grabbed his pocket watch from the control dash. The airfoil stayed still, half in, half out. Maybe there was still time to plan this out, he thought, slightly delirious. Maybe he could step out, keep his hand on the nose, and it would be enough?

  A down gust of wind hit the tail with a slap, and the whole contraption came off the floor a foot and a half. Panicking, Mache shouted a battle cry, tossed his effects onto the floor and scrambled to follow them. Undo the belt, foot in the chair, hand on the dash, heave!

  There was a moment of fear when Mache wasn’t sure he would make it. Next a moment of triumph when he realized he was clear. His feet hit the floor. He stumbled backward, suddenly dizzy. He wheeled his arms.

  The wind hit again. The airfoil’s nose tossed like an angry horse, clipping Mache’s already abused skull. He heard a hollow thud and hit the floor face down.

  Hopefully whoever owned the dirigible would understand.

  * * * *

  Good God almighty he had a headache. Gear monkeys clanged at his skull and shook the chains in his mind. There was a bright light on the other side of his eyelids and he tried to lift his hand to shield his face. Instead he smacked himself on the cheek. “Errg…” he groaned, blinking. Man, his face was scratched up. What in hell had the airfoil done to him?

  “Are you awake?”

  Mache opened his eyes, regretted it instantly, and slammed them shut again. “Sorta?” he moaned. “Whose airship is this?”

  “Mine.”

  A woman. Oh thank the stars. “Who’re you?”

  “Valeria.” Her voice was sweet, soft. Noblewoman’s daughter, he guessed. Maybe he wasn’t in too much trouble. If he played the dashing pilot she might even feed him.

  “Ms. Valeria, my name is Mache Harcming. I experienced catastrophic airfoil failure and tried to crash land, but I’m afraid I didn’t realize your flight deck was altered.”

  “Oh. Is that how you wound up in there?”

  He chanced to crack open an eyelid. A leather bustier lined with several utility belts. Loose white blouse tied at three quarters length. A slim, white wrist with one of five strangely long fingers pointed up, tapping against a dainty chin. He blinked, eyes opening more as she continued. “I wondered. The airfoil must have slipped back out and hit you, right? You’ve a nasty knot on the back of your head and it’s quite unfortunate how you landed on the grilling.”

  Mache stared. The woman who sat beside the bed had a fae’s face, delicate lines and porcelain skin. Perched on her nose was a pair of glasses with a series of successively more powerful lenses attached. A plain leather eye patch covered one eye. The leather extended over her forehead until golden hair covered it. He noticed, even in among the golden wire and glass of her eye-gear, her good eye was blue. “Uh…yeah,” he managed.

  “It’s not a wonder you thought the ballroom was the flight deck. It used to be, you know, when this was a war-buggy. When we acquired it–I mean, the only times the flight deck is used is when the CEO needs to get in or out, or one of the clients comes up maybe once a year, and we thought it made a wonderful view–I converted it to a ballroom and made a flight deck on the fourth level. It’s a wonderful flight deck. I’ll show you when you’re able to move. I never was able to get the grilling out of the original. Pity, your face is torn up!”

  Had she stopped talking? Mache ventured to speak again. “You made the decks?”

  “Oh, the basic layout was already done. I did the alterations so it could be how I liked it in my laboratory and quarters. Don’t you think the guest quarters are lovely?” Pink lips curved a contented smile as she gestured with both hands.

  Mache glanced around. It was true. The room he was in was sumptuous. Wooden paneling, more velvet, another chandelier of worked glass and bright bronze. The light was coming through blinds pulled back from floor-to-ceiling windows. He squinted. It looked to be late afternoon and the bright light was the sun. Crap. He was supposed to be making his delivery now. “Pretty fabulous,” he said.

  “The flight deck is even better,” she gushed. “Since I don’t have to worry about more than one landing at a time, I use one of the pads as a garden.” She studied her hand, and again Mache noticed her strangely long fingers. “Even if the dirt gets in everything, it’s worth it to have fresh lettuce and carrots, don’t you think?”

  “Sure?” Mache murmured, watching her cautiously.

  Valeria didn’t reply for a moment, squinting at a finger. “Hmph. Everywhere,” she hummed, and her hand
abruptly unlatched, and then exploded. Mache yelped, jumping to the far side of the bed as Valeria looked up in confusion, holding out her hand. “What?” she asked. “It’s only a prosthetic.”

  “A what?” Mache said, staring. Each finger split into five triangular slats, which moved independently of each other, each slender new extension with two joints of its own. “Gah. It’s like an insect.”

  “It’s one of my inventions,” Valeria said. “I call it the millipede. It’s most useful for people in careers with complex jobs to be done by hand. Gear assembly, limb-making, even a seamstress came to get one.”

  “You make those things?” Mache asked, eyes widening as he crept back to his pillow, head pounding. “Which company do you work with, anyway? Are you an independent inventor?”

  “Oh, no, no!” Valeria laughed off the notion, flicking a microscopic something out of a joint and pressing a button. With a pneumatic snap the hand collapsed, resuming its previous long five-fingered shape. Mache gaped. The lines were seamless. “I’m a contractor for Elthgo Industries. You landed on my workshop.” She beamed. “Pretty lucky, I’d say.”

  Mache stared at her. Elthgo was a company with a fearsome reputation for secrecy and a hardline stance against intruders. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Lucky.”

  Maybe he should have let the ground win.

  * * * *

  Once Mache showed he wasn’t likely to slip into unconsciousness again Valeria disappeared for several hours, insisting he take a bath and rest and relax. Mache mostly spent the time worrying. How was he going to explain this to the boss? How was he going to explain this to Elthgo? God in heaven, he was screwed.

  Still, when Valeria appeared at the door, smudged with soot, the magnifying glasses absent, and her hair bunched into small, tight waves, he couldn’t help thinking that if he was screwed, it was a damn good screw. Valeria was intelligent, curious, and downright fascinating. She only got more interesting when she served them both dinner.