Slowly, his senses submerged into a veil of membrane. A life form, suspended in warmth.
He sat straight up, eyes wide. “Does that hurt?”
She shook her head. “Not in the least.”
He took a furtive look about. Should he try it? With a quick head duck, his ear came to rest upon the roundness of her. A gentle hand hesitated before stroking his temple. Yes, there was a sympatico with this woman.
“Can you hear the babe thumping away?”
“She is humming, Mrs. Farrell.” He sat up. “Se quel guerrier io fossi! ... Celeste Aida.”
She smiled. “She?”
“Sorry I took so long. Dreadful crush of smokers in the upper lobby.” Zander stepped down into their row and handed her a glass. “Seltzer water and lemon, as ordered.”
“Thank you for braving the crowd, dear.” She sipped her fizzy refreshment. “Mr. Black informs me our second child is a girl.”
Phaeton nodded. “Most definitely, a she.”
“Excellent. We can narrow down names to Camille or Fiona.” Zander’s affectionate, possessive gaze caused a momentary pang of loneliness, a sensation Phaeton quickly set aside.
Zander settled an arm across the back of his wife’s chair. “My dear, has he been pestering you with unwanted advances?”
“I would never attempt a tryst with Sophie. It would break your heart.” Phaeton winked at her.
Zander snorted. “Not before I broke off your privates and sold them to cannibals.”
The chime signaled the end of entr’acte.
Opera aficionados drifted back into the auditorium. A tall, striking gentleman caught Phaeton’s eye. Something familiar about the silhouette. It was obviously not Zander Farrell, for Scotland Yard’s finest sat one chair away, publicly nuzzling the neck of his prodigiously pregnant wife.
He straightened his chair. The intriguing gentleman stepped into a middle row and found his seat. Without a scan or search of eyes, the stranger looked directly at him. Phaeton met his gaze. He had not seen this man since his Trinity days, but sensed a more recent encounter, he was nearly sure of it.
As the lights dimmed, Phaeton shifted his attention to the stage. Disturbing recollections drifted in and out of his thoughts and the third act came and went before he once again immersed himself in the music and story.
By the end of act four, the entire audience was riveted. Radames is sealed in a vault below the temple and finds Aida hiding in the darkness. All the men readied their handkerchiefs for the ladies in the box. La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse. Phaeton whispered the words, “The fatal stone now closes over me.” Morir! Si pura e bella. He sighed. “To die so pure and lovely.”
Outside the Royal Opera House, Phaeton tagged along beside the Farrells. With one eye on the front of the theatre, he held up his end of a lighthearted, informal banter. Zander stepped into the street and opened the coach door. “Can we drop you at home?”
He spotted the stranger. “Thank you, but no. A brisk walk will do me good right about now.” The tall man turned in the opposite direction and headed for the Strand. Phaeton nodded a bow. “Again, a memorable evening enjoyed in the company of excellent friends.”
Dodging pedestrians and a bustle of carriage traffic, he followed after a dark figure that appeared to alternate between genuine flesh and illusion. Wisps of cloud cover drifted across the moon, darkening the street ahead. Gas lamps flickered and shadows danced beneath the dim light. There, up ahead, footsteps echoed against cobblestone. Phaeton picked up the pace. He couldn’t risk losing the man for the second time in so many days.
Yes, he was quite sure the elusive silhouette he chased after would turn out to be the rooftop phantom that had frightened off the snow harpy, or whatever the odd apparition had been.
A few cobbled lanes and alleyways separated the wide thoroughfare of Strand from the Embankment along the river. He was back in familiar territory. It pained him to think this small enclave south of the theatre district had become a place of terror and death, not unlike those fifteen square blocks of Whitechapel. He needed to get to the bottom of this riddle posthaste. Catch the fiend, stop the murders, and try to keep the press out of it.
His pulse accelerated at the very idea of chimera chasing. He caught a slim glimpse of an opera cape vanishing around a bend in the lane and hastened his step.
The race was on. Each time Phaeton quickened his pace, the man ahead seemed to pull farther away. Frustrated, Phaeton sprinted down one row after another, able to catch nothing more than an occasional glimpse of a shadowed figure. He turned into a narrow passageway and ran straight into a dead end.
Certain that he had followed correctly, he scrutinized the brick wall in front of him. He pivoted slowly, scanning rooftops to each side of the alley.
“I am here.”
Phaeton jumped back. The man stood just a few paces away. Odd, he had not seen or detected the stranger’s presence. “Yes, you are.”
“Why do you follow me?”
He cleared his throat, hardly knowing where to begin. “I believe we have met twice before. Our first encounter was at Cambridge, eight years ago. Just outside The Green Dragon, I was accosted by a dangerous sort of creature with fangs and claws. Something between a dog and a wolf, but man-sized. I had more than a few pints in me, too bladdered to resist.”
Could that be a glimmer of recognition? Phaeton couldn’t be sure. “You came along and tossed the hairy beast off me as if it was a child’s toy.”
A faint, twisted smirk appeared on an otherwise perfectly chiseled and largely inscrutable face.
“I remember the incident.” The man cocked his head. “I take it you have the gift. Unusual abilities that are helpful in—what is your line of work, Mr.—?”
“Black.” Phaeton reached inside his overcoat. The stranger stepped back. This time it was his turn to grin. Slowly, he pulled out his card. “Scotland Yard. Investigating several murders down here along the Strand.”
The man grabbed him by the coat and flung him against the brick wall. Dazed, Phaeton shook off the ringing in his ears. “Very impressive.”
“You will never track down or catch this killer, Mr. Black.”
The stranger leaned in close—sniffing the ether. They each inhaled frosty air with the faint metallic scent of the other’s essence. “Yes, you have superior talents, but they are buried deep. A dangerous condition. You are both cunning and foolishly brave. These qualities attract the creature you seek, but you have not the experience to defend yourself nor the expertise to defeat her.”
Phaeton smiled. “It is a female. An Empusa, perhaps?”
The gleam in his rich, golden-green eyes narrowed. “I warn you once more, leave this to me. Continue to pursue this ancient Kemet goddess and you will be soon be dead. Another victim found along the Strand.”
Phaeton quickly ticked off his options. If there was a chance to catch this demonic virago, he could use a chap like this. “We could work together.”
He released his hold and backed off. “I do this alone.”
Phaeton was unconvinced. “Just a guess, but I think you could use some help.”
The man took one step back and leaped into air. One moment he stood in front of him, the very next—nothing. Vanished. . . but to where?
Phaeton turned in time to observe a familiar shadow leap from the top of the wall to a window ledge to the rooftop in three swift moves. Good Christ, he was seeing things. And he hadn’t had a drop of absinthe in over a day.
Curls of smoke and the crackle of blazing timber was all that was left of Number 67. Warehouse of the Seven Seas Tea Company, owned by Charles Jones & Partner. The enflamed storehouse in Wapping Basin had been declared lost beyond saving. The fire brigade would continue to defend the other buildings surrounding the facility until it burned to the ground.
America sat on the back of the fire wagon and struggled to keep her composure. Until now, there had been no time for tears.
Months ago, she had quit th
e expensive town house and fashioned a small apartment for herself in the offices of the warehouse. Now all was lost. Her clothes, a cache of money she kept hidden under the file cabinet, and an old daguerreotype, the only portrait she owned of her father. Handsome and dressed as a sea captain, the way she remembered him as a child.
She slipped into the distraction of memories. No more than six or seven years old, standing on the dock. Her father sternly protested as her mother handed her off to him. How frightened she had been on that first voyage. The nightmares. Waking in the dead of night to an unfamiliar rocking sea. Crying out, “Maman.”
“You’ll be needing to find another place to sit, Miss.” When she didn’t move, the fireman lifted her off the back of the hose wagon and set her on the steps of a nearby storehouse.
America stared blankly into the ruins. A blackened wood beam broke off and crashed to the ground, throwing a swathe of sparks into the air. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked. The gentle motion returned her mind to that first trip across the Atlantic. Days away from making port, she had taken a fever. Her father had sat with her, wringing out a cool damp rag and forcing down a bit of broth.
“You are a survivor, Amiee.” Papa had told her so just before he passed.
She would carry on, all right. And if she ever laid eyes on Yanky Willem again, she’d murder him without so much as a “good day.” She imagined her trial, and conviction, but not before blackening the man’s name in public with the truth of his crimes. She’d march to the gallows whistling.
“Miss Jones?”
Her gaze moved from the huge building in flame to a mild looking gentleman with a thick tuft of unruly grey hair falling over his forehead. He wore a dark suit and a clerical collar.
“My name is Father Lowell, Covenant of the Faithful Angel. I work with the Reverend Mother, who runs the Night Home on Lower Seymour Street—you’ve heard of us? A safe place to sleep for girls of good character.”
All she could manage was a blink.
“The fire brigade captain has informed me that your place of residence will be gone by the end of the evening.” His gaze darted toward the flickering light of the blaze. “Will you be needing a place to stay, miss?” He reached out a hand.
Tears didn’t come until a Sister of Mercy tucked her into a soft cot at the shelter and covered her with a scratchy, thin blanket. A copy of the New Testament rested on a small night table between two beds. At first she hiccupped and choked, her eyes unable to manufacture enough tears. Eventually, the soft rain of grief streamed down her cheeks and dampened the pillow.
America slept fitfully and awoke with a thumping pulse and a startling idea. Nothing much more than a notion, but the thought kindled something akin to hope, deep inside her. There might be one person in London willing to help. In fact, the man was at least partially responsible for her delay. If she had returned to the warehouse earlier, there might have been a chance to prevent the fire.
She bolted upright and dried her tears. From their first encounter, she sensed a powerful enchantment, something magnetic about him. Le visage d’un grand espirit. The face of a great spirit. Her mother’s people were a mélange of French and slave and lived for part of each day immersed in the practice of great mysteries. They had taught her to recognize another of their kind when she encountered one.
But would Mr. Black have her?
Well, he would just have to. That’s all there was to it.
Chapter Five
THE DOOR TO LIZZIE’S ROOM OPENED with a freezing cold blast. A swarm of ice crystals stormed past Phaeton and swooped down the stairs. Pressed back against the balustrade, he hesitated, torn between chasing after the frost wraith’s tail and checking on Lizzie.
Squeaking bed springs and low moans, the hot-blooded cries of fornication filled the hallway. And a whimper of pain, straight ahead. He reached for an umbrella lodged against the entry molding and gingerly pushed the door open. In the center of the room, an iron bed spun in slow circles, inches above the ground. A cloud of frost swirled in the air. Lizzie lay like death atop a crimson splattered mattress, her shoulder and dressing gown soaked in red. The dear girl struggled to inhale a shallow breath of air.
The nebulous apparition floating above the bed frame slowly shifted into the form of a woman. Disturbing. Deadly. Flowing black hair and rounded breasts like alabaster globes were visible through gossamer robes. A chimera of pale, luminous beauty turned to stare at him. Her eyes glowed wide and golden, before turning into sparkling rubies. The vamp’s gaze traveled down his body and then up again. She licked her lips.
Bone-hard and ready to please, there was no doubt about it—the seductress aroused him. And there was something else. What was it Miss Jones had said? A weakness of spirit and great sadness. He moved cautiously, as he quite plainly understood not to underestimate the powerful little succubus.
“I would like to help you.” Nonsensical words, given the situation.
Instantly the she-devil dissolved into shimmering dust and reconfigured herself as a large, pale spider. The apparition braced legs to each side of poor Lizzie’s dying body and swayed back and forth, unsteady. A fuzzy grey face with claws for a mouth and several sets of menacing yellow eyes swiveled to fix on him.
She meant to frighten him off.
He circled the bed, and moved closer, forcing her to withdraw. Several spindly limbs faltered under the bulk of a pendulous, misshapen body. Her retreat ended at the foot of the cast-iron bed rails. There it was again; he had noted a similar injury to the harpy in Savoy Row. This time the wretched shape-shifter dragged a leg, perhaps more than one.
The doors to the wardrobe burst open. Once again, the she-creature dissolved into a frenzied whirl of frost and ice. He lunged after nothing more than a specter, which disappeared through the large hole in the back of the armoire. Leaning into the darkness, through the ragged opening and broken window, his gaze swept every corner of Shaftsbury Court. Nothing out of the ordinary. The usual number of carriages parked along the street. Most of them awaited Mrs. Parker’s clientele or customers of Blades, the gambling hell down the lane.
Phaeton retraced his steps, noting a spray of red drops over the floor and bed sheets. He had interrupted the end of her feeding. If he had not arrived when he did, Lizzie would certainly be drained. As it was, she teetered on the edge of consciousness. The labored wheeze of her breath caused him to doubt whether she would live through the night.
He moved to the door, stepping over the hulking man who lay groaning on the floor. Out in the corridor, he leaned over the second floor railing and called for assistance.
Esmeralda peeked her head out the door of her apartment. He was quite sure her shoulders were bare. Her nudity irritated him. Was she working tonight? He wondered who the man was. In fact, he was stung with jealousy over it.
“Lizzie has been abused again. I’m afraid she’s in a bad way. We’ll need to call for a doctor, straight away.”
Esmeralda nodded. “Give me a moment. We have a doctor in the house.”
Phaeton returned to the room and pulled the hired man up into a sitting position. No discernible puncture wounds. Poking around through a tuft of hair, he found a large knot at the back of the poor bloke’s head. Having pieced together most of what had transpired, he nevertheless asked the question. “Mr. Skimpole, can you tell me what happened here?”
“He will not remember anything.”
Phaeton turned toward an eerily familiar voice. Stunned, he gritted his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping open. It was him. All six feet of the mysterious, imposing gentleman. Phaeton’s gaze narrowed as it slid from unbuttoned vest to untied cravat. Mrs. Parker stood beside him in a silk wrapper.
So.
Esmeralda tightened the belt of her dressing gown. “Phaeton, this is Doctor—”
“Jason Exeter. We meet again, Mr. Black of Scotland Yard.”
The director’s office stifled, as usual. Phaeton squirmed under Elliot Chilcott’s scrutiny,
whose untamable eyebrows and muttonchop sideburns underscored the irascible nature of Scotland Yard’s head man.
“He examined Lizzie briefly, and left. Returning not ten minutes later with a leather satchel filled with apparatus—medical equipage. He gave her a transfusion of blood.”
“His own blood?” Chilcott appeared to be making a concerted effort to control disbelieving mannerisms like his usual roll or bulge of eyes.
“Mine, actually.” He hated debriefings. They always made him feel like he was some kind of oddity, and certainly not to be taken seriously. “The doctor claimed his own blood was tainted in some way.”
Steepling his fingers together, Chilcott’s gaze slid from Phaeton to Zander and back again. “How exactly do they extract blood during these ... transfusions?”
Phaeton unscrewed a cufflink and rolled up a sleeve. The incision was red, held together with a stitch, and there was a good bit of bruising around the wound. “My blood is drained into a receptacle. And in turn, this man, Exeter, posing as a physician—”
Zander flipped pages in a dossier. “His full name is Asa Alexander Exeter. Father British, Mother Persian. He has Anglicized his given name—now calls himself Jason Exeter. He took a science degree, a DSc, from Cambridge. I can find no address for a surgeon under the name Exeter. More likely he’s in research.” Zander closed the file. “All I could dig up at a moment’s notice.”
The director sank back into the comfortable, worn cracks of his leather chair. “And do you believe this Doctor Jason Exeter to be—frankly, I don’t know any other way to put it—human?”
Phaeton stared. “I believe so. At least partially.”
“You believe or you know?”
“Sir, he’s quite agile for an average man.”
“In what way?” Chilcott pulled on the long hairs of a sideburn and scowled.
Phaeton hesitated, his patience edging along the thin side.
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 4
