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

by Colleen Gleason

  I heard the distant sound of voices and activity, and once again the strains of piano music. Apparently the club was open for business. I wondered how long it would be until Gillies and Matilda began to wonder where I was.

  Had Mina and Grayling arrived? Were they sitting at a table, waiting to be served?

  I told Pix of our half-formed plan in a low voice as we made our way to wherever he was taking me. “I’m supposed to serve Mina and Grayling,” I finished. “And report on anything I learn.”

  He muttered something, but otherwise made no response.

  Finally, after dodging and slipping about like a couple of sneaky mice, we came to a metal door that reminded me of a bank safe. Its front was a maze of cogs, bolts, and gears.

  “In ’ere. I’ve been trying to break in for days,” he said. “I keep getting interrupted. An’ it’s a complicated lock system.”

  I thought about the three rows of locks on the door to his hideaway and the numbers he’d chosen. I felt a little pang of pain, and thrust it away. “Do you know what’s inside?”

  He nodded, then pulled out a slender leather wrap that clinked softly. Crouching at the door, he unrolled the packet on the floor next to him. Inside was an array of tools—lock picks, skeleton keys, slender magnifyers, and even something that looked like a doctor’s stethoscope.

  And then he went to work with those slim, quick fingers and sharp eyes. He had to remove one of the false ears so he could insert the listening device.

  It might have been an amusing sight, Pix with one ear on and one ear off, his bulbous nose askew once more, and the stethoscope cord trailing from where it was positioned in the one ear. But I found no humor in the situation at all. Instead, I stared down at the forlorn piece of false ear, swamped with a confused mix of emotions.

  Things were never going to be the same.

  Although the back of my neck had been chilled and prickly since I arrived, the sensation hadn’t changed…until now. All at once, it became sharper and eerier.

  I reached stealthily beneath my skirt, sliding the stake from its moorings. Pix glanced at me in acknowledgment, but continued his work without pause. For some reason, that gave me a little pop of warmth: unlike Mina, he trusted I would handle the threat.

  I slipped away, intending to greet the vampire before he came close enough to see Pix and possibly sound an alarm.

  Too late, I realized there were three of them. (My mistake. I’d expected one, or two at the most.) I saw their shadows spilling onto the floor from around the corner.

  I paused. Three against one meant that it wouldn’t be a quick and quiet altercation. Which meant there was the chance of raising an alarm.

  So I did the first thing I could think of that would distract them.

  I pulled up my sleeve and sliced the sharp end of my stake down the outside of my arm. The cut stung, but blood immediately burst free.

  Then, hiding the stake behind my skirt, I hurried around the corner.

  “Oh!” I feigned surprise as I purposely nearly ran into them. “Hello. I…” I took on a confused expression.

  “Are you lost there, my sweet morsel?” asked one, his eyes gleaming with interest. He looked hungry—and so did his companions.

  I took care not to look any of them directly in the eyes, and didn’t try to avoid it when one of them lunged for me. I let him take my arm, pretending to become faint as he plunged his fangs into my wrist.

  As I sagged, a second UnDead caught me in his arms from behind. Falling against him, I tipped my head to the side in obvious invitation, keeping my eyes slit in order to avoid the alluring gazes of my attackers. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  As my blood flowed freely from three different places, the strength began to seep from my limbs. I had to act soon. But with one UnDead taking blood from my wrist, and the other drawing it from the top of my shoulder from where he’d grabbed me behind, that meant my stake hand was free.

  Fortunately, the last vampire was foolish enough to reach for that remaining arm, which hung seemingly helplessly toward the ground. As he made his move, tilting toward me to grab at it, my hand flew upward, stake-point first, and slammed into his heart.

  He exploded into dust, and before either of my other attackers realized what had happened, I swung the same hand over my torso in a powerful arc, shoving the stake into the back of the man feasting on my wrist. He never even knew what hit him.

  Panting and a little lightheaded, I staggered, my knees buckling. The vampire who’d been dragging blood from my throat pulled away in shock. Maybe he’d smelled the ash; maybe he just noticed through the haze of bloodsucking pleasure that his two companions were no longer pulling his meal away from him.

  But that was all I needed. Blood dripping from my wrist, I reached up and dragged the silver cross necklace from beneath my uniform bodice, then tossed the large pendant over my shoulder. It swung on its chain, slamming into the vampire’s face.

  He cried out in shock, and immediately I heard a sizzle as the silver connected with his flesh. The vampire released me completely as he staggered back. I stumbled into a pivot, bumping into the wall and nearly vaulting onto my face due to weak knees and a sudden lightheadedness from lack of blood, but on the way down, my stake rammed into his shoulder.

  The man cursed, but the silver cross was still repelling him, so he didn’t have the strength to lash out or to fight back very hard. This gave me the opportunity to try again, and this time, using the wall as leverage, I arced up. My stake plunged directly into his heart.

  He froze, his eyes wide with pain and surprise. Then, in an instant, he was gone in a puff of smelly, UnDead ash.

  Panting, I leaned against the wall. I was dripping blood everywhere—belatedly I realized that was likely to attract even more UnDead. (If Mina were here, she’d have a few things to say about my lack of forethought.) And the scent of musty ash would as well. But there was no help for it.

  I returned to where I’d left Pix. He was still working on the door. He cursed under his breath when he saw me, and began to rise, but I held out a hand to stop him.

  “I’ve got salted holy water,” I said as I dug for where Pepper had sewn it into the hem of my uniform.

  “How bad?” he asked, looking at me with those intense eyes even as his nimble fingers worked at their task.

  “I’ve been worse,” I replied, wincing as I poured the salted holy water over the bite on my wrist.

  “I’ve almost— Ah,” he said with great satisfaction. “No almost about it.” He smiled a little and turned something on one of the large cogs. I heard a quiet clunk followed by an entire symphony of whirrs, clicks, and soft thunks.

  And then, with a sort of sigh, the door shuddered in its hinges then exhaled as it came free.

  Pix bundled up his tools, still studying me and my injuries. “What happened?” he asked, his attention bouncing between the bloodstains in various places on my clothing. He peeled off his nose (which was coming unattached) and stuffed it into his pocket.

  I shook my head. Unlike Mina, I had no need to revisit every minute detail of my encounter. Besides, I wanted to see what was behind the door.

  I didn’t resist when Pix took my hand. In fact, I felt a wave of pure awareness when those talented fingers closed over mine: warm, strong, familiar. I swallowed past the burning in my throat, and we walked into the room.

  When I saw what was in there, it took me a minute—but then the pieces began to fall into place. Maybe not as quickly and easily as for Mina Holmes, but when I saw what was inside the chamber and how it was arranged, I began to understand.

  I looked at Pix. “Now what?”

  “That,” said someone behind us, “is a very good question.”

  Miss Holmes

  ~ Revelations, Requests, and Realizations ~

  As Grayling and I followed Mr. Gillies, we were flanked by the two guards. I couldn’t quite subdue a spear of nerves.

  I wasn’t concerned about my safety.
I was more concerned about…other things.

  At last we arrived at a silken barrier of blood-red fabric. It shivered as if in anticipation of what was about to occur.

  A third guard stood blocking the way.

  “Madam,” said Mr. Gillies with a sweeping bow and a gesture for me to proceed. But when Grayling took my elbow, our host held out an arm. “No.” The guards moved, blocking my companion from following. “Not you.”

  My heart pounded wildly. I glanced at Grayling, saw that he was about to protest, and shook my head sharply. No.

  I needed to do this. To follow through whatever this was. Behind the mustache and beard, Grayling’s expression was a mask of fury and fear. But it was a testament of his trust in me, and perhaps even admiration, that he made no argument other than with his eyes.

  I had no trepidation as I turned from my simmering companion to face the silken curtain that separated me from…her.

  My palms prickled. A great, billowing emotion that was a combination of excitement and fear—and more than a twinge of hope—accompanied me as the guard swept the carnelian curtain aside.

  The moment I stepped over the threshold, the swath of silken tapestry flowed back into place, separating me from Grayling and the guard. But instead of greeting my hostess, I faced another barrier: this one of silvery white silk. A large crow had been stitched upon it—a black crow with red details glinting from the edges of its wings and piercing blue eyes. The Carnelian Crow. The luminous cloth shivered from the air moving around it, and I discerned a faint glow of light burning through the fabric’s translucence.

  I swept aside the curtain and once again stepped forward.

  She sat at a small table in the center of the spare, compact room. Its windowless walls were draped in wide swaths of black and red silk that rippled from some unseen shift in the air. Candles glowed everywhere, and seemed to be suspended in midair as their flames darted and sent dancing shadows along the walls and floor. A fire roared in a massive alcove on one wall. Other than the lighting and wall coverings, the chamber held nothing but the round table and two chairs—one for me, and one for her. On the table was a slender red carafe and two elegant glasses.

  My heart thudded madly as I tried to make out her features, her face—but she was veiled beneath the black top hat she wore. I had no choice but to move closer as she made a spare, elegant gesture with a gloved hand. I was to join her at the table.

  Hope pounded within me—a hope I had dared not name or even acknowledge. I felt certain I would recognize her, even from this distance, if it were—

  But I refused to even entertain that possibility. I refused to even put a name to what I wished for.

  The disappointment, were I to be wrong, would be…catastrophic.

  “Sit.” The voice was too low and nebulous for me to identify.

  My feet seemed to float as I hesitated. My head felt strangely weighted down, my hands clumsy and swollen.

  It took every bit of control I owned, every scrap of consciousness, to keep my eyes steady and cool on her veiled, seated figure—as if this moment wasn’t a great, unsettling turning point. I gathered my courage, stiffened my spine, and leveled my eyes—then swept across the room and into the proffered seat as if I were the Queen.

  “At last,” I said in a strong voice, meeting what I believed was her eyes through the glaze of her veil. Then I mustered a hint of disdain. “Surely you no longer need to hide behind that.”

  Her laugh rolled through the charged air, and I felt a wave of disappointment, a shattering of that fragile piece of hope I’d nurtured…and then acceptance.

  No. It wasn’t my mother who sat across from me.

  It was Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt.

  She removed the hat and veil, and just as quickly as my flash of hope had come and gone, so were the two of us—two mere mortals, two strong and intelligent women—facing each other.

  Alone. Unmasked. And fully cognizant of the other.

  She was a handsome woman, perhaps in her early or middle thirties, with medium brown hair and gray eyes. The colorlessness of her irises had certainly contributed to her agility in disguising herself, as well as the unremarkable shade of hair and the angularity of her features. I’d seen evidence of how she adjusted the shape of her eyes and mouth—likely by using a dab of spirit gum at the corners to stretch or constrict the skin—as well as more subtle changes, like altering the arch and thickness of her eyebrows and the fullness of her cheeks and jaw.

  The art of disguise was, Uncle Sherlock had impressed upon me, a subtle science. And Lady Isabella had demonstrated herself to be a master at it.

  She assessed me as closely as I was doing to her. “The blond wig…it doesn’t quite suit you as well as your natural coloring, Miss Holmes. I’m certain your handsome companion would agree.”

  I merely returned her gaze. Though it isn’t a weapon I normally choose to employ, silence can be quite powerful. But her acknowledgment of Grayling’s presence caused a bite of concern. Had she recognized him?

  When, after a prolonged silence, she was the one to speak, I felt as if I’d won at least an initial skirmish. “You’ve proven yourself quite a commendable adversary.”

  I inclined my head in acknowledgment. I was curious as to why she wanted to see me. Was I now a captive of some sort? Did she merely wish to gloat over her recent triumph? Or did she have some other purpose?

  “I never expected to be as challenged as I’ve been with you and Miss Stoker. The two of you make a formidable team.” Her eyes—today in their natural almond shape, so far as I could ascertain—gleamed, and the dancing candle flames were reflected therein. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing from whence you spring.”

  “The Holmes mental acuity and deductive abilities are, indeed, formidable,” I said.

  To my surprise, she laughed, and made a dismissive gesture. “Holmes? Forget what the men have told you, Mina. I was speaking of your mother.”

  I froze. It took me a moment to find the wherewithal to speak. “You know my mother?”

  “Oh, yes indeed.” Her brows lifted in a single, elegant arch. “I know all about Desirée Holmes—also known as Siri. A trainer of vampire-hunters.”

  I moistened my lips, trying to dig my thoughts out from the deep, dark, murky pit into which I’d been flung. “How— When did you know her?”

  In retrospect, I realized Lady Isabella could have pressed her advantage now that I was completely off guard. Had that been her intention, she could easily have annihilated me in some way: either mentally or physically. I was that thrown off my game.

  “In Paris, of course. More than twenty years ago, it was. We were young and adventurous. And the three of us were very nearly inseparable.”

  “Three of you?”

  “Desirée, myself, and Irene.” Her eyes narrowed craftily. “Did you not know this? Has your precious mentor not shared this bit of information with you? How negligent of her.”

  Miss Adler? Miss Adler knew my mother?

  I believe I managed to keep the evidence of my shock to a minimum, but my adversary’s eyes were sharp and unrelenting as I faced her across the table. I suspected she saw far more than I intended.

  “Was that when you became involved in La société de la perdition?” I asked as some of the pieces began to fall into place. “When you became fascinated with the UnDead and vampirism?” I knew that Miss Adler had, at one time, an unhealthy fondness for being fed upon by vampires—just like, apparently, many of the women here. I subdued a shudder. Miss Adler had nearly died because of that old tendency—even, perhaps, addiction—during the charade surrounding Willa Ashton’s spiritglass.

  Perhaps that was how she’d come to be here, performing at The Carnelian Crow—which was obviously a haven for the UnDead. I wondered whether Lady Isabella knew Miss Adler was here. Had she recognized her beneath the disguise through which even I had barely discerned my mentor’s real identity? Or, like most society women, did Lady Isabella give h
ardly any notice to her servants—treating them as if they were invisible?

  My hostess made a moue. “I had no love for the vampires. Messy, violent, rapacious creatures they are. It was the concept of immortality to which I was attracted—but surely that’s no surprise to you, considering our past interactions.”

  “Not at all. It was obvious you were—and presumably still are—seeking the power to live forever. It began with the Society of Sekhmet—no, it probably started long before that, didn’t it? I only became aware of you and your…criminal tendencies…during that affair. When you killed Della Exington and Maryellen Hodgeworth.”

  “It was Irene and Desirée who found the UnDead fascinating, and who fell into the lure of that world.”

  “But Desirée—my mother—she trains people how to kill vampires…”

  Lady Isabella laughed. “That was the delicious irony of the situation. She unintentionally introduced us—Irene and me—to that world, to that way of life because of her involvement with the vampires…and the three of us had loads of fun. Surely you can imagine it: three young, beautiful, intelligent women, set loose in Paris—the city of beauty and hedonism. Three young women who answered to no man, who lived a life of freedom, and had their own resources. We were the belles of Paris, and for a time, the darlings of La société. Desirée wanted to infiltrate the secret society, and she couldn’t keep Irene and me out of it. It was too delicious! One doesn’t have to enjoy—or even allow—oneself to be fed upon by the UnDead in order to be a member, you know. There are other benefits: wealth, power, and pleasure.”

  I stared at her. My head, my brain—which could handle enormous amounts of data and observations—was spinning. It was with great effort that I reined in the maelstrom of thoughts, questions, and demands, and managed to focus on one—one meant to offer some reprieve from this onslaught.

  “Of course I’m wondering why you sought me out tonight,” I said, ruthlessly taking control of the conversation. “Surely it’s not simply because I found my way into your secret club—which appears to be your own den of iniquity, a hearkening back to the days in Paris, no? I suspect you mean to gloat over the incident at Cosgrove Terrace. The apparent suicide of your husband—which was no suicide at all. Nor was it an accident.”