Free Hot and Steamy by Jean Rabe

embroidered sofas, an armoire, and stacked trunks of memorabilia—greatly disheveled. Her bed asunder.
    Winston ducked out of the car and passed through the other passenger cars as he made his way through the train. His heart raced, pained with anxiety. Winston surveyed each car as he strode, inspecting them for any sign of his charge. He cursed himself for not doubling her guard after their encounter with Mr. St. Ives. He closed his eyes and forced himself to remain calm. Not wanting to alarm the other passengers—nor create greater chaos—he didn’t rouse his soldiers. He had to be the one to find her.
    The passengers of the train slept soundly at this late hour. The train rumbled around a bend, throwing off Winston’s gait, then straightened out as it crossed a bridge traversing the Ohio River. He pulled the door to enter the small portico that bookended each car. It allowed the passengers to be undisturbed by the noise of the outside as porters entered and left the car. Winston opened the next to last car. The wind scraped at him. The cacophony of the rush of air, the clangor of the engine, and the rattle along the tracks rose to a near physical assault. He clutched his cane as he leaped from car to car, latching onto the rail with his free hand. Once inside, it took a moment for his ears to adjust to the eerie silence once more. The engine room wasn’t what he expected. He remembered the days of coal-shoveling engine jockeys crying black tears as soot mixed with perspiration around their goggles. This engine room gleamed with polished metal. Two figures struggled at the far end of the car. The swarthy man glanced at pressure gauges, flipping levers like a mad man as he turned a wayward crank. Lady Trystan, in a red silk dressing gown, was held fast under one arm. His stomach bottomed out. His heart lurched, so desperately afraid she might be hurt. Or taken away.
    â€œUnhand her, cur,” Winston shouted.
    The man turned and revealed a weapon aimed at Lady Trystan: a pistol of some sort with a glass sphere where the cylinder should be. Energy crackled in it like a miniature plasma ball. Winston has seen such weapons before, cognizant of the charred remains to which they could reduce a body.
    â€œI have no wish to harm the young lady. However, my employer does wish her to be delivered to him. So while this train may make a detour so that we may depart, her condition upon arrival was not . . . specified.” The man yanked her, tightening his grip to drive home his point.
    Leaning on his cane, Winston raised his left hand to show that he was unarmed and for the man to relax. He caught Lady Trystan’s eye, counting on her intelligence and resourcefulness. “You’ll get no trouble out of me. I actually feel sorry for your client. Lady Trystan is a handful. A vexing woman prone to outburst.”
    He nodded.
    Lady Trystan bit the man’s arm. In a savage hurl, he flung her into the control panel. He raised his weapon to take aim at her, but Winston drew a bead with his cane first. He squeezed the open mouth of his dragon head handle, and the cane discharged with a sharp report. A wisp of smoke drifted from the tip of Winston’s cane. The bullet pierced the man’s heart, and the man stared at him in mild disbelief. He staggered back one step, touching his vest as if checking the measure of his wound and determining it as fatal. For a moment, he seemed to waver, enough life in him to fire one shot of his weapon. But as Winston scampered to get between the man and Lady Trystan, the weapon fell from his fingertips as if he’d decided it would be unsporting of him.
    Winston offered his hand to help Lady Trystan from the ground. She rose to her feet with an awkward dignity.
    â€œI turn my back on you for a moment and you get into all manner of trouble.”
    â€œI find I must ever seek to draw attention to myself to keep the men in my life entertained.”
    â€œBut