The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  In the darkness of the alley, he could only approximate an address. He walked around to the side of the building and decided to scale it from there. It was either that, or learn to fly. He pulled himself up onto the top of a large refuse bin, and shimmied up a drainage pipe. Inching upward, he found the occasional jog in the bricks for a toe hold, which greatly advanced his efforts. His fingers shook as he inched them into a mortar crack. The higher he climbed, the more rattled he became. Odd that heights unnerved him. Especially when any number of frightful apparitions had little or no effect.

  As he ascended close to the roof edge, a face bobbed into view wearing bloodred goggles. “Mr. Black.”

  Losing his grip, he slid downward. Abruptly, his fall was stopped and reversed. Instantly, he was lifted up by a powerful, invisible force, until he stood on the rooftop, facing Dr. Exeter.

  He blinked. There remained an odd buzzing noise in his ears, which didn’t help an uneasy stomach as he tried to focus on the sparkle of the Thames drifting behind Exeter’s head.

  “How did you do that?”

  The stoic man actually flashed a wry grin. “The physics are complicated. Not something I feel inclined to discuss this evening. You require a staggering amount of education, Mr. Black, but we are not here to conduct class in the manipulation of the physical universe.”

  The thick spectacles the doctor wore glowed a fuchsia-rose color, swirling into lurid hues of cerise and purple. Phaeton could barely see the man’s eyes behind the tinted glazing. Exeter removed another set of goggles from an inside coat pocket. “We are here to catch a powerful manifestation, an incarnate soul.”

  He quirked a brow. “Is she not a vampiress—an Empusa?”

  Exeter opened the ear armatures and locked them into place before setting the heavy glasses on the bridge of Phaeton’s nose. “Remember your ancient history, Mr. Black. The immortals have always required blood—in copious amounts.” The doctor scanned the embankment along the river. “London does not currently have a sacrificial temple in which to restore the ichors of the gods. Please correct me if I am wrong.”

  As Phaeton’s eyes adjusted to the optics, he noted a shift in the spectrum of moonlight. Reflections of river current, the pale flicker of the gas lamps along the embankment, all glimmered in mysterious brilliant pink tones. “So our Empusa, for we might as well call her that, is forced to stalk the streets, seeking human sacrifice.”

  “Replenishment. It is a theory of mine.” Exeter nodded toward the river walk. “These lenses will pick up the slightest illumination. Concentrate your surveillance around Cleopatra’s Needle.”

  Phaeton scanned a stretch of Thames behind the needle as he listened to Exeter.

  “As you have already witnessed, she travels in a flurry of luminescent particles. I have fashioned these opticals to enhance our abilities. There are often small precursors of essence, before any perceptible occurrence of her.”

  The doctor turned to Phaeton. “I felt no presence at Mrs. Parker’s the other evening, but she drew you to her.” Exeter lowered the odd spectacles on his nose and peered over the tops of the lenses. “I suspect she has turned her attention to you, Mr. Black.”

  Phaeton grinned. “Jealous?”

  Exeter drew slanted brows together. “So carefree and glib, but not for long. You have no idea what you are dealing with—”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Phaeton settled back against a chimney stack. “We have hours yet before dawn.”

  The doctor’s gaze continued to narrow. “For my own edification and your safety, a bit about yourself, first. You appear to have contact abilities. Do you see as well as hear them?”

  Phaeton nodded his head.

  “And when did this all begin for you?”

  “As a child I routinely conversed with magical beings. And there were night terrors. Mother understood, even encouraged the parts that didn’t frighten me. Father never approved of her doting.”

  The river waters rippled a virulent shade of violet. “When she died, I was packed off to school. To avoid being buggered to death by the older boys, I hid my abilities, tucked them safely away. Gradually, the visitations became less frequent.”

  A faint droning noise caused Phaeton to focus on the obelisk. “A swarm of some kind is headed our way.”

  “Likely, one of her distractions.” The doctor ran to one end of the building and motioned him to follow. They both ducked as a posse of small objects buzzed overhead. Large eyeballs, framed in black and sharply-pointed on the one end. “All-seeing eyes.”

  “With stingers.” Phaeton tracked the buzzing pests back to the swarm. “Rather clever, how she fashions her minions.”

  “She knows we’re here. We’ll need to jump to the next building, then the yard below.” From a standstill, Exeter leaped to the roof of the next building.

  A swarm of flying orbs bearing knifelike points descended upon Phaeton. The storm cloud of dangerous wasplike creatures encircled him, stabbing from every conceivable angle. He braced himself for a stinging assault, but felt no pain. Phaeton held up a hand and pressed against a thick, invisible barrier. An invisible force field held the prickly monsters at bay.

  “Jump, don’t think.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am—” Phaeton dodged several stingers that poked through the membrane. “Damn it, man, I don’t like heights.” Heart racing, palms sweaty, his entire body vibrated with obsessive fear.

  “The shield will not hold much longer. Your choice, Mr. Black, you can jump or be ripped to shreds.” Cursing under his breath, Phaeton gritted his teeth. He took a half step back then vaulted over the dark void between buildings. For one long moment, time stood still as he sailed across the divide.

  He landed next to the man, who actually chuckled. “A leap of faith by an agent of Scotland Yard. Follow me down to the lane.” Exeter landed neatly on his feet while Phaeton’s fall and subsequent tumble to earth was broken by another unseen shield. Stunned, he lay on the ground for a moment to let his stomach settle.

  The doctor shrugged. “It takes practice.”

  Phaeton dusted himself off and took the lead. Inching along the rough side of a brick wall, they made excellent progress in the direction of the obelisk. Ivy hung down over a large niche in the barrier. They quickly took refuge behind a curtain of greenery.

  Exeter nodded toward a wall fountain which featured the placid, sleeping face of a young goddess. Moss bloomed in the deeper clefts of the sculpture as empty eyes opened and blinked. She opened her mouth but did not speak. Blood gushed out.

  They both stepped away.

  “Ouch.” An errant eyeball, a scout of some kind, took a stab at Phaeton, and he swung at the nasty pest. A cacophony of cricket sounds indicated the swarm was not far behind.

  “Quickly.” As the waspish eyes invaded, the doctor shoved him into the alley. They raced across the lane to the river walk. This time, Exeter signaled him away from the needle. They ran until they stood at the corner of Savoy Row and the Strand. Exhausted and out of breath, they slowed their run to a walk and waited.

  “You and I, together, create some kind of magnet. In the future, we will have to make our observations from afar or split apart.”

  Phaeton paced in small circles as he sucked in draughts of air. “I take it you plan to locate her hideout and set some kind of a trap?”

  Exeter shook his head. “Destroy the lair. She has another located somewhere else in the city.”

  “Ah, so one by one, we close in. How many are there?”

  “Unsure. Three or four possibly. I destroyed the first.” Phaeton stared. “She’ll just find more.”

  “The very reason we have to move swiftly.” Exeter nodded toward the eastern cityscape.

  A pale sky streaked with yellow and pink. Charcoal-edged clouds hovered above a row of waterfront buildings. Phaeton exhaled. “Dawn.”

  Dr. Exeter turned and walked away, dissolving into the grey mist of earl
y morning. A voice traveled out of the fog. “We must find her hideaway, Mr. Black. Meet me at my laboratory late in the day. 22 Half Moon Street.”

  America caught his reflection in the looking glass as the door swung open. Mr. Black stood at the entrance to her room with the back of his hand raised, knuckles turned out, as if he was about to knock.

  “Perhaps now you’ll believe me.” She turned around and stuck her chin out. “Doors open around here without the courtesy of a knock, Mr. Black.”

  “Most likely fairies.” Eyes half open and shoulders hunched, he leaned against the entry frame. “Pester the devil out of me from time to time. On the subject of minor nuisances ...” He pulled an object out of his pocket, and pinched the quivering oddity between two fingers. “Might we find a cage for this?”

  Her eyes grew wider as she approached him. She reached out to touch the queer object and the rabid critter buzzed to life and angled a stinger toward her. She quickly retracted her hand. “Cheeky little pest. What is it?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Perhaps, after a good strong breakfast tea, Miss Jones?

  At the pantry table, they each held a freshly brewed cup and stared at the little orb fluttering about inside an empty conserve jar. It was an eye all right, encircled by a ring of black, which formed a kind of pincher, or stinger-like shaft, at one end.

  Mr. Black slurped a bit of Earl Grey. “We were chased off a rooftop by a swarm of these things.” The irritable orb bounced off every side of the glass container. He picked up the jar and slammed it down, stunning the little fiend.

  America tilted her head and leaned closer. “Port Said, in the bazaars. I have seen bejeweled gold pieces for sale with this image. Powerful amulets.” She tilted the jar for a better look.

  He stared. “Egyptian?”

  She nodded and sat back to sip her tea.

  “Keep the kettle hot.” He sprang out of the chair and paused. “And could you possibly make some of those buns of yours, Miss Jones?”

  She steeped a second pot and set about making a bit of breakfast. When her employer returned from upstairs, he carried under his arm a number of tomes on Ancient Egypt borrowed from Mrs. Parker’s library. Combing through the illustrated books, they were able to decipher the symbology of the eye of Horus.

  Mr. Black sliced through a rasher of bacon. “Horus’ eye was shattered into six pieces, each representing one of the senses ...”

  As he read, America opened the last book in the stack. After a brief perusal of the illustrations, heat rushed from her belly to her cheeks. She clapped the book shut.

  Her employer popped a last morsel of buttered bun into his mouth. The man could grin and chew at the same time. “Mrs. Parker has quite a collection of erotica. I brought that down for you, Miss Jones. ’Tis your reward for recognizing this Egyptian Horus fellow.”

  Damn the man for smiling that twinkly grin at her. She bit back a flirtatious repartee.

  “A reward for me, Mr. Black. Are you quite sure? The book is filled with lewd pictures. I have no interest in pornography.”

  “Then perhaps, you might consider another reward.” He studied her, anticipating, assessing her interest in his next offer. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a card. “Yesterday morning, I had a brief discussion with this gentleman at headquarters.”

  The calling card stated Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, 4 Whitehall Place, and the name Dexter Ambrose Moore.

  “It seems Dex is working on a case involving an outbreak of unusual thievery. Merchant ships, stolen by pirates, of all things.” He winked.

  America sprung to her feet and kissed his neck and cheek. He turned his face toward the warmth of her lips. “No need to wire. He will be expecting a Miss Jones.”

  She held the card close against her bosom. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Black.”

  “You have the afternoon off.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Run along, then. I am perfectly capable of washing a few breakfast dishes.”

  She emerged from her room wearing a pretty dress and coat, which caused him to turn away from his chores and stare.

  “Very charming.”

  “Borrowed from Lizzie. I sat a few hours with her yesterday, at her bedside. Mrs. Parker says she is greatly improved.”

  He soaped a teacup. “I don’t recall that chore on your list.”

  “You specifically stated ...” America lifted her apron off the chair back and found the folded note paper. “Right here, Mr. Black. ‘If you complete this list, do not hesitate to be of service to Mrs. Parker.’ ” She could not ignore the stack of dripping dishes. “Would you like me to finish up or may I leave now?”

  “Watch yourself around Dexter Moore,” he grumbled. “Comes off as quite the proper gentleman, but I have witnessed a kind of rampant sexual athleticism ...” Phaeton clamped his mouth his shut. “Just be warned.”

  She nodded a quick curtsy.

  “And, Miss Jones.”

  She turned back. “Yes, Mr. Black.”

  Drying his hands with a dishcloth, he circled around her. “In the next day or two, I expect you to pick out one of the delightful poses from the Kama Sutra, and I shall endeavor to please you.” He leaned over her shoulder and kissed the exact spot on her neck that made her shiver.

  Chapter Nine

  AMERICA ENTERED AN OFFICE THAT CONTAINED TWO DESKS.

  The secretary nodded to a chair. “On the left, Miss. Agent Moore will be here shortly.”

  She took a seat and perused the orderly landscape of the desktop. A neat stack of files sat to one side of an otherwise spotless, gleaming wood surface. She noted a blotter and pen set. The ink bottle was adorned with an engraved sterling silver stopper. Certainly not government issue.

  She glanced at the disarray across the room. A messy desk indicated an agent who was busy in the field. A man of action, or just disorganized? She scanned the pristine surface of the desk close to her. A man who was conscientious and meticulous? She hoped so.

  “Good afternoon.”

  She shifted in her seat to catch the back side of a reasonably tall, dark-haired man as he adjusted the door to the office. For the sake of decency, he left the door ajar.

  Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his collar points high and cravat slim, the man was the very picture of fashionable. He straightened an otherwise perfect stack of files and twisted a gold cufflink at each wrist before sitting down.

  “There now, how can I help you, Miss Jones?”

  America tilted her head. Agent Dexter Ambrose Moore was attractive. A shock of black hair fell over his forehead, which might have given him a less imposing, youthful appearance were it not for the neatly trimmed beard that emphasized the man’s best feature. Sparkling sapphire eyes framed by long velvet black eyelashes. Really quite dashing.

  She cleared her throat. “Less than a year ago, my father owned a small fleet of merchant vessels and a thriving trading company. In rapid succession, several of his best, single-stack ships were lost at sea, along with their cargo. It was a devastating blow to the business.” Her voice trembled as the words tumbled out. “Then one of his business associates claimed the remainder of his fleet as repayment of debt. One blow after another was too much. My father died recently, in November.”

  “Very sorry for your loss, Miss Jones.” He appeared reasonably sincere in his condolence, though perfunctory. All business, this one.

  “Those ships weren’t lost at sea. They were stolen.” She raised her chin. “At the moment, I have no proof of thievery. But I shall not rest until I catch whoever did this and make them pay. Bloody pirates.” She supposed the upturn at the edges of his mouth indicated he was at least listening to her. The agent opened a desk drawer and took out several sheets of a paper. From inside his jacket pocket, he removed a fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and shook it down.

  “Your father’s name, the name of his business and his investors?”

  “Charles Gardiner Jones. Star of India Trading & Shipping Limited
.”

  “British Registry?”

  “All five ships.”

  He glanced upward as he scratched names onto paper. “Might the name of your father’s business partner be either a Mr. Harry Poole or Captain Yanky Willem?”

  Her heart flip-flopped inside her chest. “You know of Yanky Willem?”

  “I hope to find the scoundrel a new home, preferably a cell in Newgate.” He pulled a file off the top of the stack and flipped it open.

  He smiled at her. “With your assistance, Miss Jones, perhaps we can expedite his change of residence.”

  “I’d like nothing more than to see a rope around his neck.” She answered his raise of brow with one of her own. “The man can go straight to Hades.”

  “That would be a miserable change of address, wot?” A chestnut haired man stood in the doorway wearing a pleasant grin. “Sorry to disturb. I’ll just collect a few files and work in the next office.”

  “Hold on, Gabe. Midway to his desk, the affable gent pivoted toward them. “Gabriel Sterling may I introduce Miss Jones.” The slightest ring of acrimony edged Mr. Moore’s voice.

  She held out her hand. “America Jones, pleased to meet you.”

  “Miss Jones.” He studied her for a moment. “You are American, then?”

  “My late father, recently passed, was a British citizen. My mother is American.” Both men stared at her, unwilling to ask the most obvious question. Brits could be annoyingly civil. She sighed. “My skin color and curls come from my grandmother, a freed slave, Mr. Lewis. My Français grandfather owned cotton plantations.”

  She looked from one frozen half smile to the other. “I am known as a high yellow Cajun in Louisiana.”

  “In England we would just call you beautiful.” The one with the messy desk certainly had his appeal. “Would we not, Dex?”