The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4)

by Colleen Gleason

  They exchanged glances. If they were indeed vampires and were going to attempt to call my bluff, this would likely be the moment their fangs would erupt and their eyes would begin to glow. I was also prepared for that, as my hand hovered near the throat of my cloak, ready to toss it away at a moment’s notice to reveal the silver cross. I felt Grayling tense next to me, and I suspected the walking stick he carried concealed some sort of appropriate weapon as well.

  The taller guard appeared ready to acquiesce. “Your name?”

  I drew myself up again as if mightily insulted. “Pardon me?” My voice was icy as the Arctic and still inflected with an accent.

  “Your name, madam, for our records.” This time, he sounded marginally apologetic.

  “You dare ask my name? Do you not have ze eyes in your head? Do you not recognize ze royalty ven it stands before you? I am ze Princess of Vovinga, and you have delayed me long enough.”

  I gathered up my skirts, offered my arm to Grayling, then swept toward the door (which remained closed).

  I must have made my point clear, for the guard rushed to open the door before I was required to even slow my pace.

  “That was magnificently done,” Grayling murmured in my ear as we at last stepped inside.

  “Thank you,” I responded in a similarly low tone. “Ambrose.”

  Though it was obscured by his tinted spectacles, I caught the look of surprise and pleasure that flashed across his face at my use of his given name. That, in turn, sent a little prickle of delight through me.

  As we made our way to a table, I admired the arrangement of the club now that I was seeing it firsthand. Evaline had not stinted in her description of the place, and it was every bit as dramatic and luxurious as she’d described.

  The arched glass ceiling exposed a beautiful starlit sky. In an obvious effort to keep that a focal point, all man-made illumination in the form of lamps and candles was set no higher than halfway up the sides of the walls. Black candles flickered in small forests of flame inside ornate bronze birdcages, and four roaring fires ensured the below-ground room was comfortably warm.

  I intended to sit at one of the side tables Evaline had told me about, with the high privacy wall around two-thirds of it, and thus led my companion to the nearest unoccupied one. The table and its semicircular built-in bench were rather close together, and I hesitated before gathering up the layers of fabric of my clothing to bundle myself into a seat. It would be difficult and awkward to slide in.

  But before I could make a move, a very proper man, dressed in a masculine version of the red, black, and cobalt uniform Evaline had shown me, approached in a rush of horror.

  “Please, no, madam,” he said, halting my attempt. “Allow me.”

  At first I thought he meant to keep me from sitting there, but when he shifted a lever at the back of the booth, the table began to move. It pivoted out and to the left, away from the bench seat, sliding smoothly and silently on some invisible arm. This completely exposed the half-moon seat, which was upholstered in lush blue velvet studded with jet-black buttons. Grayling and I removed our respective cloaks—giving them to our host—then stepped up onto the low platform on which the booth was moored. We thus settled easily into our seats.

  The man, whom I identified as Mr. Gillies due to the red crow emblem stuck to his mustache, moved the lever once more, and the table returned to its proper position. During this entire time, the scarlet-on-cobalt paisley tablecloth barely fluttered, and the blue glass decanter and tiny tulip glasses didn’t so much as clink.

  I didn’t deign to thank Mr. Gillies, as I believed Princess Vovinga would never stoop to acknowledging mere servants. Instead, I lifted my nose and turned to Grayling, who’d removed his hat and set it on the attached rack for such purposes.

  “Permit me to demonstrate the privacy screen, madam,” said Mr. Gillies.

  When I nodded regally, he pointed out the mechanism that engaged a barrier which extended from the back of the booth’s wall and curved around the front to the opposite side. The lower half was solid, but the upper half was made from some translucent material that offered some obscurity, but still allowed us to see a mottled version of the club. A small gas lamp glowed above our heads.

  “Momentarily, you will be provided with a…ahem…menu of tonight’s offerings,” our host informed us with a very correct bow.

  After Gillies had left, muttering something about missing servants, I looked at Grayling. “Now we wait for Miss Stoker to find us, and we will determine our next move from there.”

  “The music is quite nice,” he replied, referring to the piano and crooning vocals coming from the stage. The woman was singing a song about how all her troubles seemed so far away, yesterday. “And I must say, this is a very comfortable arrangement.”

  My companion was sitting quite close to me, and I cannot say that I minded in the least. The privacy screen remained in place and it all felt wonderfully cozy. I almost forgot I was on an investigation. It was also becoming a trifle warm, and so I took advantage of our obscurity and carefully removed my veiled hat.

  Grayling, whose appearance was strikingly different (and not quite as handsome, if one took note of such things) now that a sleek black wig covered his mop of gingery hair, followed suit. He pulled off his gloves and the purple-tinted spectacles, tucking both accessories into a large pocket of his jacket.

  “Perhaps a bit of refreshment,” I suggested, gesturing to the blue carafe.

  Grayling poured for us, and it turned out the contents of the carafe consisted of a pale pink beverage that fizzed and foamed. I sniffed it and was rewarded with a noseful of strawberry, mint, and basil. It tasted just as refreshing as it sounds.

  My companion sipped from his drink, then settled back in his seat and half turned to look at me. “Well, Miss Holmes, here we are at The Carnelian Crow. While I’ve seen no evidence of criminal activity, I’ve also no doubt there is something sinister underlying the veneer of this very excellent ladies’ club. What do you propose for our next step?”

  “If Evaline doesn’t appear soon, or nothing untoward occurs, we should take matters into our own hands and begin to—as she puts it—snoop around.”

  He grinned behind his false mustache and beard. “That is precisely what I expected you to say.”

  But I hardly heard him, for I had noticed something familiar about the woman singing on the stage. She’d had her profile to us most of the time, and the little bit of her face I could see had been in shadow. But now she leaned toward the pianist, resting her elbows on the instrument, and a swath of light filtered over her features. I didn’t recognize them, but there was something very familiar about the way she moved, and tilted her head…

  It took me a moment, then I recognized her beneath the layers of disguise. Without thinking, I grabbed Grayling’s arm sharply and nodded toward the dais. “The singer.”

  He took a only a moment to scrutinize her before he nodded and murmured, “Irene Adler. How curious.”

  “Indeed.”

  That raised more questions, but also answered a few. I mulled for a bit, considering a variety of actions and scenarios, and was confident Grayling was doing the same.

  We listened to Miss Adler sing about how she would always love you—though I have no idea to whom she was singing in a club mostly filled with females.

  Predictably, there was no sign of Evaline. Clearly, she’d been delayed or detoured—as usual.

  And just as clearly, there was something else about The Carnelian Crow other than the seemingly innocent dinner club—although I had noticed a woman who looked remarkably like Lady Hortense Kinney-Dell sitting very close to a man who was most definitely not Lord Kinney-Dell, a highly placed parliamentarian who was far broader and heavier than the man currently keeping company with his wife.

  And there was another couple who appeared to be kissing. On the mouth. In public. (The couple in question was sitting in a privacy-shrouded booth like ours, so I couldn’t identify the
culprits. But I suspected they were not meant to be seen together.) The very sight of them was enough to make my cheeks heat uncomfortably.

  I hoped Grayling hadn’t noticed the other couple’s activity.

  It was then I noticed a very distinct odor—an essence that was rusty and pungent and rich. I felt my heart kick up a beat as I realized what it was, and was just about to turn to my companion when he leaned closer to me.

  “Miss Holmes, do you smell—”

  “Blood,” I whispered. “Fresh blood.” I swallowed hard, for now that the aroma had come to my attention, it was almost cloying in its thickness in the air.

  “Look there,” he said in a low, tense voice, “at the booth just to our left.”

  My heart stopped. “Good gad.”

  Whoever was at that table had neglected to position the shield for privacy purposes, for I could see quite well what was happening. Perhaps the woman who sat therein, sagging languidly back against the curved wall of the booth, didn’t mind that the rest of us in the establishment could see that a vampire was feeding on her wrist. She tipped her head back, resting it against the plush velvet behind her, and seemed to be…enjoying the moment.

  “Should we intervene?” I murmured once I’d caught my breath.

  Grayling was very still next to me. “She doesn’t appear to be in any…er…distress. In fact, I believe she is—”

  “She’s enjoying it,” I finished, unable to take my eyes from a view that seemed both intimate and violent at the same time. The expression on the woman’s face was most definitely one of pleasure rather than fear. I couldn’t stop staring, watching in both horror and fascination.

  “It appears that way.”

  Finally, I tore my eyes from the sordid scene, and as I did so, my attention skittered over the rest of the chamber—including the other booth where the couple had been kissing.

  That was when I realized with a shock that they were now doing more than merely kissing. The pair of glowing red eyes told me what I’d missed. “There, too,” I managed to choke out, prodding Grayling’s arm so that he looked as well. “He’s biting her neck.”

  My companion muttered something, and what I could see of his features were dark and taut. “A very special, dark sort of establishment,” he murmured. “It’s no wonder it’s been kept such a close secret for years.”

  Just then, a young woman dressed in the same uniform that Evaline had shown me—though it wasn’t her—approached. She was accompanied by two very handsome, well-dressed men—one blond and one dark-haired, each perhaps a few years older than Grayling—and a beautiful, exotic-looking woman with unnaturally red hair. They weren’t wearing servants’ livery like their companion or Mr. Gillies; instead, the trio was garbed in well-appointed evening wear.

  “Would you care for some refreshment?” The maidservant held up a small placard.

  Grayling pushed a button, and a small panel flipped open in the privacy screen, creating a sort of table or tray through the opening. She slipped the card, which I immediately recognized as a menu, through the hole.

  “And if you are interested in other sorts of…entertainment,” she said with a smile, and gestured to the two men and woman, “you may make your selection.”

  It was all I could do to keep from gasping in shock and horror when I realized her three companions were vampires, and she was offering us to select from one of them.

  Grayling’s strong fingers on my arm were the only reason I didn’t betray myself, and that gave me the moment to remember who I was—or, at least, who I was supposed to be.

  Thus, as Princess Vovinga, I managed to give each of the UnDead an assessing look. I pretended to myself that I was merely choosing a footman or groom, and took my time considering the so-called options. Each of the three not only showed the tips of their fangs as I looked them over, but they also allowed their eyes to flare with the telltale red glow.

  I had to admit, the dark-haired one would have been quite attractive if he hadn’t been an immortal demon. Apparently, there were some women—and likely men as well—who truly did enjoy the feel of an UnDead drinking their blood.

  After a moment, I shook my head and gave a haughty sniff. “Do you not have anyzing better zan zis? I expected…somezing more.”

  The young woman drew back a trifle as if surprised, but recovered herself quickly. “Of course, madame—”

  “Your Highness,” I said, snapping my body into full attention and giving her the Holmesian glare of my father.

  “Of course. Your Highness,” stammered the waitress. “I’ll see if—if there are any other options.” She turned to leave, then belatedly remembered her vampire companions and gestured to them.

  The dark-haired vampire gave me a long, bold look and allowed his eyes to glow even brighter with challenge before he turned to follow the serving woman.

  No sooner had they gone than I felt Grayling’s hand shift from my arm to close over my fingers. He murmured something that sounded like a curse, but I didn’t care. It was clear he was as astounded—and horrified—as I was.

  “A vampire den. Instead of an opium den,” he murmured. “And yet…I don’t suppose that it’s strictly illegal. I can think of no laws they are violating—at least in that manner.” He sounded grim and rather worn out. “Do you believe me now, Miss Holmes, that this isn’t the place for a gently bred young woman like yourself?”

  “When investigating cases, one must make sacrifices,” I said.

  Grayling seemed just about to say something else when we saw Mr. Gillies and his mustache with the red crow ornamentation approaching our table. He was accompanied by two individuals that were so stone-faced and broad-shouldered they could only be guards of some sort. I got the distinct impression they were not another choice of vampire “entertainment.”

  I reached for Grayling’s hand on the seat next to me, and he squeezed back gently. I had a feeling things were about to get even more interesting.

  “Pardon me, madame. Your presence has been requested in a private meeting,” said Mr. Gillies.

  “And who, pray, is making such a request?” I replied arrogantly.

  “Madame,” said the mustachioed man, dropping his voice reverently. “It is of course…Her. The Woman.”

  I flickered a glance toward the stage where Irene Adler, who Uncle Sherlock had dubbed the Woman (emphasis on the article, rather than the noun), still sang unconcernedly. I had a feeling Mr. Gillies was not referring to Uncle Sherlock’s woman, but to…well, someone else.

  The Woman…who could only be the proprietress and architect of The Carnelian Crow.

  This was what I had been waiting for.

  The game was about to begin.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ A Far More Satisfactory Tete-a-Tete ~

  When Pix and I at last broke apart—I’m not quite certain who pulled away first—I was lightheaded and out of breath, and very, very warm. I probably shouldn’t admit it, but my knees were trembling too.

  Pix was still gripping my arms. I looked up at him, seeing past misshapen ears and a false nose (which had gone slightly askew during the very thorough kissing) to the emotion blazing in his eyes.

  “Evaline,” was all he said.

  “I’m getting married,” I blurted out—for I had just remembered that unpleasant fact. My stomach lurched at the thought.

  “Not when ye kiss me like that,” he responded. But then he stepped away, putting far too much space between us. His face slid into shadows.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t. That was the sort of thing Mina always rolled her eyes at—obvious questions or statements. But my brain was a little fuddled.

  Pix was fixing his nose, pressing it back into place. “Tryin’ to keep England from falling. Though why the devil I should care about this bloody country is a good question.”

  “England? From falling? What the blooming Pete are you talking about?” The last bit of delicious, shivery heat disappeared from my ins
ides.

  There was still a lot of emotion swimming in his dark eyes. His mouth, which was a little puffy from our kisses, twisted a little. When he spoke, I realized he’d almost completely given up his Cockney accent. “I’d have thought you and Mina would have figured it out by now. Especially since ye were witness to the first public move on Saturday night.”

  “The Ankh. And the wires. And Lord Cosgrove-Pitt.” I fumbled around for an explanation, but couldn’t seem to put the jumbled facts together. One thing I knew for certain: “There are a lot of vampires here.”

  Pix almost smiled. “Aye. There are. They’re part of the entertainment—haven’t ye been trained yet by Gillies?”

  “I haven’t seen him for a while. He’s probably looking for me—I’m probably going to get sacked.” I gave a little laugh, then sobered. “What do you mean they’re part of the entertainment?” But I thought I already knew the answer.

  “Some people take it like opium—they enjoy the sensation of a vampire drinking their blood. Some even get addicted to it. But much as ye might like to brandish your stake about, luv, and dust them into ash, the UnDead and the clients here who enjoy them are the least of our worries.”

  Luv. My heart flipped a little, drat it. There was something about the way he said it that reminded me of all the things we’d been through together.

  And why the blooming Pete was I acting like this was the end of us?

  Oh, right. My insides plummeted like a cannonball. I had to get married. To Ned Oligary. I felt sick again.

  “Well,” I said crossly, “if it’s not the vampires, what is it?”

  He took my hand. “Come on. I’ll show ye.”

  Pix obviously knew his way around the back rooms and tunnels of The Carnelian Crow and its environs much better than me. Several times we had to duck into a doorway or hide behind a curtain when someone approached—and Pix seemed to know every hiding place. Not a surprise.