“Hello?” Layla dipped her head to peek into the room before descending the last set of steps. “Thought I heard you speaking to someone, Miss Jones.”
“Just mumbling to myself.” America managed a grin. “What is it, Layla?”
The girl handed her a wire. “Arrived minutes ago by special messenger. Must be important, forwarded from Scotland Yard.” She nodded at the envelope’s addressee.
TO: PRINCESS SERAFINE AL QATARI
c/o DETECTIVE PHAETON BLACK
PLEASE INFORM THE PRINCESS STOP FINEST
SUITE IN THE HOUSE AVAILABLE END OF
WEEK MRS. HORSLEY
She read the message twice. There could be only one explanation. For the second time in two days, her throat ached and her eyes watered. “Thank you Layla.”
The girl nodded and returned up the stairs.
America headed down the hall to his room, hesitating before she knocked. “Phaeton?”
No answer.
She pressed her ear against the door and rapped once more. She fell forward as the door opened.
Disheveled and half-dressed, Phaeton leaned against the doorjamb and stretched his naked torso. Her gaze wandered across a mat of chest hair and down a flat, trim stomach. The bruising around his ribs had turned to pale shades of green and yellow. Nearly healed.
“What is it, America?”
She jerked her attention upward and pushed the telegram into his hand. “It’s addressed to me, or rather, the princess, in care of you.”
He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the brief strips of words pasted on paper. A spark flashed in those deep liquid brown eyes before he crumpled the paper.
She raised a brow. “Well?”
“Popped in on Mrs. Horsley to do a security check on the residence. Might have mentioned something about Victoria paying a call.”
“I see.” She pressed her lips together but could barely hide her delight. “And this rare visit by the queen wouldn’t have anything to do with the princess, would it?”
A curl at one end of his mouth proceeded the familiar lopsided grin. “I may have”—his eyes moved to her lips—“mentioned something about a meeting with the princess.”
Even though he made no move to hold her, a wave of desire swept through her body. She inched closer. So close her lips actually touched his when she spoke. “How might I find a way to thank you, Mr. Black?”
Still, he did not reach out for her, but his eyelids grew heavy and his lips parted.
She played the tip of her tongue along the underside of his upper lip. “Like this?”
He pulled back and tilted his head. “Should I allow myself to be seduced if you are only going to throw me over for the finest suite in the house?”
She placed several soft kisses on his lips and he leaned in for a long taste. “Why on earth would I ever invite the queen to tea at Mrs. Horsley’s?”
His smile warmed her down to the tingle in her toes. “You caused me to worry, going off like that.”
She bit her lip. “I am very sorry. I did not think—” She broke off her speech and lowered her eyes.
He lifted her chin to make eye contact. “Did not think what?”
A blush warmed her cheeks. “That ... you cared.”
He took her in his arms, his sensuous mouth covered hers, pressing her lips open. She played a blazing game of chase with his tongue as his hands tightened around her waist. His kisses, raw and impassioned, caused a surge of desire that spread through her entire body.
“Take off your clothes and have a seat by the four-poster.” She swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“You require proofs of affection, do you not?” He did not wait for her response; instead, he inched by her and headed down the hall toward the pantry.
She disrobed slowly, folding her clothes neatly on top of his dresser. Her body shivered in anticipation of what, she had no idea. But whatever Phaeton had in mind, she was very sure it would make her tremble and moan. Down to chemise and pantalettes, she sank onto the small upholstered chair and began to roll down her hose.
America sensed something and turned. A shadow appeared in the doorway, lit from behind she could not make out a face. She grinned. “Do not consider a ménage with Edvar, Mr. Black, even though I believe he’s rather sweet on me—”
“Your mate cannot hear you.”
America started. The amorphous shape standing in the hall refashioned itself into that of a tall, slender female. The apparition floated into the room.
America rose slowly and backed toward the dresser. She grabbed her dress and quickly stepped into the gown. “Where is Phaeton? What have you done with him?”
A tinkle of laughter traveled around the room, disembodied from the shifting form in front of her. “Your man is sleeping for now.”
She tried to find a pair of eyes to—ah yes, there they were—glimmering ebony orbs. How lovely and strange this powerful goddess was. “I don’t understand. What do you want with me, Qadesh?”
“Fay-ton will awake and find you gone. He will come looking for you.” The chimera moved in close and sniffed her. “Fertile.”
“I beg your pardon?” America backed away.
Chapter Twenty-six
PHAETON JOGGED THROUGH THE ENTRANCE OF HIGHGATE CEMETERY and down a grassy corridor lined with stately ivy-covered crypts. The pristine row houses of the dead.
His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. America was missing. Vanished in the night leaving behind a pair of high-button shoes on the floor of his room. The sight evoked dainty feet and small toes that curled when he touched her most sensitive places. Wearing nothing on her feet, left cold and shivering. Somewhere.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. His head felt thick, even after the powder Esmeralda had administered this morning. At first, he suspected pirates had stolen her away, but not one of the doxies had witnessed a single seafaring thug enter or exit the building. Brothel business had been unusually slow last night, and the girls insisted they would have noticed a new man enter or exit the residence. He questioned the kitchen staff. Cook insisted there had been no intruders through the back door.
Now, he very much suspected the damned little harpy was behind this abduction. Lizzie had sensed something. Wild-eyed at the very thought of a fiendish Empusa wandering about inside the house, she had begun to chatter nonsensically. The poor dear still wasn’t right. Phaeton lifted the back of his collar against a cold chill of the morning mist.
His own experience of last evening was a jumble of impressions. He recalled a hurried scrounge through a bin of writing implements, digging about for an old ostrich quill. He intended to torment that beautiful beige flesh with the wispy strands of a feather, elevating her arousal to such a state that she would beg for something very naughty, indeed. A pleasant, burgeoning erection one moment and the next, he was out cold.
He awoke slumped over in the closet, the pantry door wide open. A vague lingering miasma had settled over the flat and a disturbing memory, or was it a dream? A face lunged at him, red lips parted, fangs exposed and a cloudy mist exhaled into his lungs. The wicked little goddess had conjured some sort of venomous sleeping potion. A simple enough way to overpower her prey. And it made sense; there had never been any signs of a struggle with her victims.
Phaeton caught a glimpse of a funeral procession just ahead, round the curve. He recognized one of the pallbearers as Dr. Exeter and slowed his pace. Lost in thought, he went over and over the facts of the case thus far. Why would Qadesh abduct Miss Jones, unless she wanted something from him? So preoccupied in thought, he barely noticed the vicar’s internment prayer or the closing of the crypt.
“What is wrong, Phaeton?”
He looked into Exeter’s steady gaze. “Miss Jones is gone.”
Exeter appeared more curious than surprised. “You seem hard hit. Did you not tell me you were quite desperate to see her settled elsewhere, or am I mistaken?”
“Changed my mind.” Phaeton quickly related th
e events of last evening. “I came to pay my respects and rummage about Hampstead Heath. I wired a colleague and asked him to meet me at the pond, perhaps nose about where the body was found and try to pick up a trail to her new lair.”
“So, you believe Qadesh has spirited away Miss Jones.” The space between Exeter’s brows furrowed deeply as his expression changed to one of grave concern.
Phaeton nodded. “There is no time to lose.”
“It would seem imperative to find her before Qadesh needs to feed again.” Exeter gestured toward the south gate of the cemetery. “Push on, Phaeton; I’ll join as soon as I can.”
“Surely you have a wake reception and—”
“My father should have died a year ago. The majority of his peers are gone and buried. For the sake of propriety, I arranged a dignified, quiet burial service, but there will be nothing more.” Exeter politely acknowledged several mourners, and returned to Phaeton. “What if this was Mia she had taken? Is not America a most cherished, living being?”
Stunned, momentarily, by the veracity in Exeter’s question, he gasped a reply. “Very.” Indeed, America Jones had become immensely precious to him.
Phaeton stumbled past the tall iron gates of the cemetery and found a connecting corridor, more of a bridlepath, which led onto the grounds of Hampstead Heath, a vast and ancient wilderness park. After a brisk walk through a pleasant glen, he came to a crossroads. A sign pointed him in the direction of the men’s pond. He found Ping standing at the water’s edge, leashed to a fearsome black-haired creature sniffing among a clump of tall reeds. He gave a wave as Phaeton approached.
“Good morning, Ping. I see you brought a ...” Phaeton tilted his head. “Dog?”
“Tasmanian Devil. Has a nose for blood and feces.” It was clear that Ping admired the animal. “An accomplished scavenger as well, enjoys a tasty piece of rotting human flesh.”
“Charming.” Phaeton leaned over to give the creature a pat on the head.
“Watch your fingers.” Ping tugged on the collar. The beast snarled and pawed at a patch of grass beside the path. Phaeton dropped to his haunches and pushed back blades stained a reddish-brown color. A number of dried drops spotted the tufts of green.
Ping pulled out a cloth evidence bag. “I’d like a sample of that.”
Phaeton took out a penknife and dug out a clump.
The creature strained at its leash and growled. “Blind Harry may be on the scent. Shall we?”
Phaeton shot upward. “Blind?”
“Sinclair found him on holiday in Australia. Abandoned in the wild. Someone had tortured the small cub, and left him for dead. Gaspar nursed him back to health and raised him as a pet.” A breeze rustled along the edges of the glade. Ping pressed his top hat down lower on his head. “Come along, Harry.”
The snuffling, groaning animal led them straight off the main course and into a stand of trees. They took several turns through a deep wood, past knurled, mysterious ancient oaks, no doubt formidable trees even when Henry VIII hunted in the heath.
Harry lurched to a halt and froze.
Phaeton prodded a blackish sort of lump with his foot, and used a stripling branch to wipe away leaves from a dead body.
The man lay facedown in the rich, brown mulch of the forest floor. “Poor chap.”
Ping leaned in. “Let’s have a look at him.”
Careful not to disturb the grounds, he rolled the body over. Blank eyes stared straight into his. A number of ants and a translucent centipede crawled over the lines of a vacant expression. “Middle-aged. By the looks of his coat and suit, clearly well-dressed. A man of professional station.”
Phaeton coughed. “By the smell of him, he’s been here longer than the bloke in the pond.” He tilted the man’s face to one side, and swept bits of twig and leaf away from the neck. Two barely noticeable pinpricks. “Dainty but deadly, aye? It’s no wonder no one ever notices.”
“Perfectly centered over the carotid artery,”
Startled by the comment, Phaeton and Ping swiveled toward the tall imposing figure behind them. Dr. Exeter stepped closer for a cursory examination of the body, paying particular attention to the color and length of the fingernails. “Qadesh has been feeding for some time.” Exeter’s gaze scanned the mounds of debris and damp leaves carpeting the small enclave. “Loose the creature.”
Harry nosed about free of his leash and in quick time watered several tree trunks and uncovered another corpse. This one was fresh. Dead for just hours, the young woman appeared to be a street doxy. Ping straightened up. “One of us should alert the Yard. Ask for a few more men. We’ll need to comb the wood and surroundings.”
“Yes, excellent idea.” Phaeton’s attention never left the devil-dog, who moved out of the glen and up the path toward the street above. “Would you mind, Ping? I believe we’ll just follow along after Harry.” He and Exeter set off after the animal, who occasionally stopped to sniff the ground. As they approached the street that separated the north grounds of Hampstead Heath from the cemetery, Phaeton paused.
“Blimey, he’s headed back into Highgate.” The animal stopped to lift his leg at a shrub, and he slipped the leash onto the panting creature.
The eager beast released a bloodcurdling shriek and set a rollicking pace through the gates and onto cemetery grounds. Most uncharacteristically, Exeter began to laugh.
Phaeton glared over his shoulder. “I fail to see what is so amusing about this.”
“Take a look where you’re headed.” The doctor’s gaze moved higher.
He pulled back on Harry’s leash. A deep archway lay up ahead, surrounded by columns fashioned to look like tall papyrus. The motif was famous and unmistakable. They were headed down Egyptian Avenue, one of the more eccentric areas of the cemetery.
He gasped. “First Cleopatra’s Needle and now this?”
Exeter’s wide grin turned rather grim. “Qadesh taunts us, Phaeton. She hides in plain sight, waiting for us.”
Harry led them deep into a labyrinth of crypts, before the whining and whimpering began. Turning a number of tight circles, the wild dog stretched his forelegs and lay down with a groan.
“No time to nap,” Phaeton lectured. The hound’s dangling tongue whipped a bit of drool over his shoes. “Fine. Have it your way.” He handed the leash to Exeter and explored the entrance to a moss-covered tomb. He shook the locked barrier and the rattled padlock clicked open.
“Hypothesis moves toward certainty.” Phaeton eyed the doctor. “She wants to be discovered.” Lock and chain removed, he pushed back the creaking gate and gestured man and dog inside. “Gentlemen?”
America lay on top of a cold stone slab in complete darkness. A shiver started in her toes and didn’t stop until her teeth chattered. She turned onto her side and tucked her knees to her chest.
The apparition would soon reappear. She had counted the number of turns Qadesh had made through the crypt. The flighty succubus appeared to be semi-lucid, in some kind of trance. Her transparent, ghostly body flew in restless circles overhead, passing through stone walls, reappearing seconds later. With each brief visitation, scant flickers of luminous vapor revealed her surroundings, only to be plunged back into darkness once her captor disappeared.
Her soft sigh became amplified, echoing through the chamber. What came back to her was harsh and rasping, Qadesh’s sigh. America covered her ears.
Fay-ton will come for you.
Yes, he would come. Hopefully, before she rotted away in this stinking crypt. To block out the hissing, whispered voice in her head, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Restless, she rolled onto her back.
The apparition hung in the air above her. Eyes the color of onyx, the black orbs grew oversized and blinked. “You are mortal flesh much favored by the young demigod.”
America tried to move and got slammed back down onto cold marble.
Her voice faint, nothing much more than a parched whisper. “Who are you talking about?”
Once again Qades
h sniffed and uttered that odd declaration. “Fertile.” Abruptly, the strange she-devil pulled away and vanished.
He is near.
Her heart raced as the words resounded in her head. She wasted no time, calling on every ability she had ever practiced as a child. She tuned her senses to the surrounding walls of the tomb. Yes, she sensed his presence. She did not dare to breathe. Listening, probing into the darkness until the faint scratch of footsteps against cold stone reached her ears.
America slipped off the stone slab and stumbled her way through the pitch blackness. She forced herself to slow down and let outstretched hands find the wall. With some relief, she lay her cheek against smooth marble.
Dear God, let it be him.
She tried to make out a faint murmur of conversation. Like a caged tigress she prowled the length of the wall until she finally let loose. “Phaeton, are you there?” She pounded the walls and cried out again for him.
A block of marble, not much larger than a bread loaf, moved. She pushed harder, but her prodding had little or no effect this time. “Phaeton, I am here. Come for me, Phaeton.”
Phaeton pivoted slowly about. “Did you hear something?”
Exeter nodded. “Stone against stone, perhaps?” Simultaneously, he and the doctor turned toward a nondescript, blank wall of the mausoleum.
He attuned his senses and waited. Phaeton, I am here.
Was her voice in his ears or his head? Exeter pointed at a good-sized stone block protruding ever so slightly from the smooth, near seamless barrier in front of them. With one hand, the doctor gripped the edges of the block and pulled. The same unmistakable grinding noise as the block effortlessly slid toward them, but by not more than an inch.
Exeter pulled again several times, but with no results. He dusted his hands off.
“I’ll give a heave ho from the bottom.” Phaeton angled himself under the block. “On the count. One. Two. Pull.”
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 24
