edged closer, weaving through the crowd. The young lady tossed her head back and laughed as her heels slammed against the floor, faster and faster. The fiddler came closer, his bow flying over the strings with near inhuman speed. Faster, faster, the fiddle’s notes growing wilder. Gypsy music. Lovely, erotic, enticing.
Calls of encouragement rang out. People clapped. The fiddler, a long and lanky gent, grinned with devilish glee from behind his black beard.
Heart pounding along with the beat of the wicked music, Poppy made it to the edge of the dance floor. Excitement rushed through her like potent wine. Here was her quarry, beguiling the crowd and drawing them closer. Indeed, it was all she could do not to jump in and dance along, twirl about too. Holding her fists at her sides, she stared down her prey, knowing that the demon would feel her—if he hadn’t already. Sure enough, their gazes clashed, and the true devil flashed in those seemingly innocent eyes. Isley.
Poppy hardened her gaze, and Isley’s rhythm lost a single beat. It was enough to have Poppy grinning in return. Bastard. Hiding away with these people. How many had he tricked already? How many souls were gambled away with false dreams and promises of better tomorrows?
The girl on the dance floor spun faster, her golden hair a blur as the music reached its crescendo and then, as if one, she and the fiddle stopped. Around Poppy, the crowd roared their appreciation, but her attention stayed on her prey. People surged forward to praise the girl who stood panting and grinning as the fiddler slipped off to drink his fill of the vodka offered to him.
As for Poppy, she eased back to the door, knowing Isley would follow. The air was cooler in the hall. She moved toward a door marked STAFF. It was a simple thing to pick the lock and slip inside. The first class cargo hold was a cavernous space. That it encroached upon the third class passengers’ living space was no surprise. Poppy walked among crates lashed securely against the walls. The faint scent of coal smoke mixed with the wood of the crates. The vibration of the massive engines and the constant thwump, thwump of the paddle wheels that they powered was almost a living thing against her skin. Her bones hummed. But her mind and heart were calm. Behind her came the sound of the door opening once again and the click of a boot heel on the iron floor.
Poppy rested a palm against a crate. “You’re quite the dancer.”
A light, feminine voice echoed in the space. “I was lovely, was I not?”
Poppy turned to study the body that Isley had created for himself. Because it was a creation. Poppy did not know the specific mechanics of it, but Isley’s bodies were as real as hers, yet they were created not by God, but by Isley’s will. As far as she knew, he was the only demon able to do so. Other demons relied on possession or the stealing of a person’s blood to shift their shape into something else.
Impish and young, the female Isley preened. Poppy bit the inside of her lower lip. “I daresay you accumulated many offers after that display.”
Isley fluffed out his skirts. “Oh, plenty. Alas, they were all male, and I find I no longer enjoy pleasures with the male sex.” Pretty pink cheeks plumped on a smile. “As there do not seem to be any Sapphos onboard, I do believe a change back to the male persuasion may be in order.” His eyes flashed white as he looked Poppy over. “And how is dear Winston?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Poppy leaned against the crate. Her muscles twitched with the need to lash out, and her jaw ached from keeping in the words she wanted to shout. He dared threaten her family. Her child. Her fists curled tight. “I must say, Isley, I am disappointed. Are you so afraid of facing me that you had to ensure our meeting was over open water where I cannot send you back to your prison?”
His white irises turned red. “Dumb luck will not be on your side this time, girl.”
“Face me on solid ground and tell me that again.” She itched to pull a blade free and slice his neck. If only to give him a pinch of pain.
Isley strolled closer, making the most of the girlish form he inhabited. Wide, working woman’s skirts flounced with each step. “We