Grayling stood, and his face appeared ruddier than usual. He didn’t look at me, but spoke to his partner in a stiff voice, one greenish-gray eye still magnified behind its lens. “Bertillon’s process has already proven useful in three cases—”
“In Paris,” Luckworth said. “Not here in London. Waste of blooming time—pardon me, Miss Holmes,” he added. “Hasn’t helped us to find Jack the Ripper, now, has it? Or the bloke who done away with the Martindale girl.”
“I thought the Martindale girl hanged herself.” I stood abruptly. “Are you saying she was murdered too?”
Grayling’s teeth ground together, and he shot Luckworth a glare as he yanked the magnifyer off. Then he looked at me for a moment. “There was no step,” he growled at last, as if in challenge. His Scottish burr had gone thick.
“Do you mean to say, there was nothing that she’d stood on to—ah—affix the rope to the tree branch, then knocked away?” I swallowed hard.
Grayling didn’t reply; therefore, I took that as an affirmative response.
If there was no step for her to stand on, Miss Martindale couldn’t have hanged herself. Someone else had to be involved.
We had two cases of young women dying in apparent suicide, that were not really suicides. And a third young woman who’d disappeared. Two of the women were connected by the Sekhmet scarab.
Would Miss Hodgeworth be as well?
Like my uncle, I didn’t believe in coincidences.
Miss Stoker
In Which Miss Stoker Is Fanned by a Glocky Sprite
I watched Mina Holmes climb into the horseless cab that had stopped in front of the building. The marble of the museum’s front colonnade entrance was cool to the touch as I slipped away. A wide stripe of moonlight filtered over the top of the vehicle and illuminated the glistening road. The gas lamps that normally lit the grounds were dark. Someone had been busy, making certain to keep the area in shadows.
Another carriage trundled by, this one pulled by a clip-clopping horse, but otherwise, the lowest street level was deserted. The only movement was a slinking cat and the something small and dark that was its prey.
I still couldn’t dismiss the rumble of shame at the way my insides had earlier pitched and churned at the scene of the dead girl. All that blood . . .
But the sight of poor Miss Hodgeworth had been nothing compared to my memory of Mr. O’Gallegh, his neck and torso torn open, his innards spilling out . . . and the red-eyed vampire that looked up at me, its fangs dripping with blood.
It had smiled at me.
I closed my eyes even now, curling my fingers tight. I fought away the horrific images, the memory of fear and terror that rushed over me as I stumbled toward the vampire, stake in hand. I’d never forget the smell. Blood.
Death.
Evil.
I remembered washing my hands over and over, trying to scrub the blood away even as I tried to recall exactly how it got there. I had no clear memory of what had happened: whether I’d killed the vampire as I’d meant to do . . . or remained paralyzed by the sight of Mr. O’Gallegh’s blood spilling everywhere.
Had my mentor, Siri, intervened? Or had the vampire escaped?
That uncertainty and the knowledge of my failure haunted me.
Now, a year after my only encounter with a vampire, I still shuddered over the memory of that night . . . and from the horror I’d witnessed in the museum.
Mina Holmes had approached that awful scene so readily. She’d seemed so fascinated with it, I half expected her to crouch and sniff at the blood with that long, slender nose of hers.
Shame rushed through me, landing like a stone in the pit of my belly. I was the Chosen One of my family, born to hunt vampires, endowed with superhuman strength and speed. And yet at the sight of blood and carnage, my insides curdled, my stomach heaved . . . and I became paralyzed.
I often wondered why Bram hadn’t been the one called. He had a morbid interest in all things UnDead and considered himself an expert. And yet he had no comprehension of what it was like learning how to fight them. How to wield a stake and where to slam it into the vampire’s chest for the fatal blow. Preparing to take the life of a creature, damned or not.
But I was the one who’d been chosen, the one who’d been called to this life. And I was determined to follow in the footsteps of my ancestor Victoria, the most famous female vampire hunter to ever have lived.
Naturally, Mina Holmes and her steel-cased stomach lacked the physical attributes that enabled me to protect myself from dangers on the dark streets. Miss Holmes might have a brilliant mind, but I was faster, stronger, and possessed the ability to sense the presence of a vampire by the unpleasant chill over the back of my neck. That, at least, was small consolation.
As Miss Holmes’s cab trundled off on damp cobblestones, leaving me alone with the night, I closed my eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of sleeping London. There was the faint shhhhhh and the accompanying rumble of a Night-Illuminator meandering its way down the street. On the next block, one of the heavy gates to a street-lift clanged. The air smelled of damp grass and coal smoke, along with the ever-present twinge of sewage—stale, putrid, dank.
“Waitin’ for something?” said a male voice. Very close behind me.
My eyes popped open, and I barely managed to swallow a gasp of surprise. “I was simply waiting for you to show yourself,” I replied without turning around. Though my heart was ramming in my chest, my voice came out smooth and steady. I eased a hand toward the pistol weighing down my skirt pocket.
His low, rumbling laugh sent a prickle of awareness over the back of my neck. It was almost . . . pleasant. Not like the eerie warning that an UnDead was near.
“Cop to it, luv,” he said, a heavy dose of Cockney in his tone. “Ye didn’t granny me till I spoke.”
I turned, searching the shadows. I spied him in a dark nook of the wall, tucked behind a slender bush. I could just make out his form next to the sharp line of the bricks, but no details other than the angle of his hat.
“Right,” I replied. “Neither your presence nor your absence matters to me.” My pulse had spiked, and anticipation barreled through my veins. At last, something interesting was happening.
Something dangerous.
He chuckled again and shifted a little. A splinter of moonlight slashed down from the hat brim to his face, jolting over a shoulder covered in a long, flowing coat. I had the fleeting impression of a dark brow and the quirk of a smile.
The man eased out of the shadows. He was taller than me and had broad shoulders. I caught the glimpse of a square, clean-shaven chin. Although I hadn’t seen more than an impression of his countenance, from his voice and demeanor, I guessed he wasn’t much older than I. “Pr’aps you were waiting for someone else to appear? Some ’andsome gent t’woo ye in the moonligh’?”
The cool metal of the firearm felt comforting in my pocket, but I saw no need to pull it free. I was more curious than anything. And even with my unfinished training, I could easily defend myself against a mortal man.
“I was merely taking in the night air,” I replied. Why was I still standing there talking to him? Unless . . . “What are you doing, lurking about at this time of night? You must be up to no good.”
Again he smiled. This time, I caught a glimpse of white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. “I’m allus up to no good, Miss Stoker,” he said in a voice that dipped low and dark and velvety.
A little surprised flutter went through my belly—only because he knew my name. Not at all because of the way his voice seemed to wrap around me and tug, deep inside. “You seem to have the advantage of me, boy.”
But my juvenile insult didn’t have any effect on the young man, who was years past being a boy.
He gave another of those low, rumbling laughs. “ ’Aving the advantage o’er a vampire rozzer is quite the accomplishment, then, aye?”
This time, the prickle that squirreled up my spine wasn’t as pleasant. Not only did he kno
w my name, but he knew my secret identity as well? My fingers tightened around the cool butt of the pistol.
“What do you want?” I asked again. I’d definitely lost my advantage, if I’d ever even had one.
He seemed to sense the change in my demeanor, for his own easy personality became more intense. “I don’t know all that ’appened inside there tonight, but when the Jacks get called in, even a glocky like me knows ’tain’t for the good. Someone buy it? The Ripper at it again?”
I raised my eyebrows, even though I’m sure he couldn’t see them in the dim light. “A glocky like you?” I understood his Cockney slang and the false modesty he was attributing to himself. Even from the few moments in his presence, I knew this man was not the least bit half-witted or, in his term, “glocky.”
“Nothin’ wrong with a bit o’ modesty, luv, now, is there?”
Just then I caught the faintest shadow of movement from above. He noticed it too, for we both looked up at the same moment. It was an odd airship, cruising much lower to the ground than usual.
My companion muttered something, and the next thing I knew, I was propelled back into the deepest niche of the building’s exterior. The force of his body, strong and quick, shoved me into the dark V of two brick walls as if he intended for us to melt into them.
Surrounded by the damp, tobacco-scented wool of his coat, I found my chin pressed into his shoulder as a strong arm curved around my waist. Nevertheless, I kept looking up and watched as the strange airship slid past us. Low enough to enter an air-canal, it slid between the buildings. It was so close, a person could step from the upper streetwalks onto the vessel.
This was unlike any airship I’d ever seen. It was a slender, elliptical shape, smaller and more elegant than the ones I was familiar with, and it boasted wicked-looking fan-like wings and a swallowtail.
This one . . . it moved like a dark cloud. Eerie and forbidding. Breathless. Ghost-like.
“Bloody hell,” my companion murmured.
I realized with a shock that I was still plastered up between his formidable chest and the damp brick wall. And that his Cockney accent was all but gone. “What was that?”
“ ’Tis jus’ as well ye don’t know. ’S a battle ye’d be best out of.” He looked down. His face was close, his eyes focused steadily on me. The bridge of his nose was a slightly lighter shade than the shadows around him. I realized my breathing had gone shallow.
“I’m certain they didn’t see us.” I had to say something. Then I started to push him away, but he didn’t move. And although I could have shoved him to the ground with ease, I held back. I didn’t want to expose the full extent of my strength . . . even though he knew my identity.
It was only then that I remembered to uncurl my fingers from the lapel of his coat.
“What’s the ’urry, luv?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice. “Ye’ afraid I’m gonna fan ye ’ere?”
The accent was back, thicker than ever. He was definitely faking it. “You won’t find anything of value in my skirts,” I replied, and tried not to think about where his hands had been . . . or could go . . . if indeed he tried to feel around my clothing in search of valuables. My cheeks heated there in the dark.
“Not even this?” he asked, and suddenly there was my dratted pistol, right there between us, in his hand. The moon glinted off the engraved barrel as if magneted to it, being the only light in a dark corner. “A nice piece o’ iron, luv. Though I would’ve expected somethin’ a bit more fancy from the likes of a fang rozzer.”
Blast! I hadn’t even felt his hand moving about. “Who are you?” I needed to at least know the name of this man, who smelled like wood smoke and something else that was fresh and spicy.
Our pivot into the corner had resulted in his soft cap being jolted to the back of his head, and I caught a full look at his face. I saw sharp eyes and a few waves of hair curling about his temples, but couldn’t tell its color. He had a slender, elegant nose and dark slashing brows, and looked about twenty years old.
He turned away, as if realizing I could see him clearly. “I’m called Pix,” he replied, adjusting his cap low. To my surprise, he handed back my pistol.
“Picks?” I repeated, slipping the pistol back into my pocket. There was no sense in letting him think I felt threatened and in need of a weapon. “As in . . . what you do to pockets? How appropriate.”
“Nay, luv. Just Pix. Like the dangerous little sprites of legend that canna be caught.” His grin came again, but a bit lopsided this time.
I smothered a snort. He was about as far from being like a little pixie fairy as I was from being a properly demure lady-in-waiting to Princess Alexandra. Although . . . I might have agreed with him on the dangerous part.
“If ye ever get into trouble in the stews, ye just say you know Pix.” His voice had dropped to that low rumble again, and he captured my hand in his. Before I could pull it away, he lifted it between us, watching me . . . and then as my breath caught and my insides fluttered, he pressed his lips to the back of my hand.
They were warm and soft, and left just the faintest bit of damp when he lifted his face.
I couldn’t believe his boldness, and I yanked my hand away, giving him a good, solid shove in the process. The back of my hand felt as if it were alive, burning from some searing mark, and my pulse pounded as if horses galloped through my veins. “Why would I need to invoke anyone’s name for help?” I told him haughtily, resisting the urge to rub the imprint of his lips from my skin. “I am a Stoker, after all.”
“Aye, ye are . . . every bit o’ you,” Pix replied, his voice low and smooth. He began to ease back, into the shadows cast by a row of hedge. “Which is why I’ll leave ye to your own devices wit’ nary a twinge o’ my conscience.”
“Wait,” I said, remembering what he’d said earlier about seeing someone near the musuem. I stepped toward him, but he slid into darkness. The moon had gone behind a heavy cloud, and the lights that should have dotted the perimeter of the museum were dark. The bushes shifted.
He didn’t stop, but his voice floated in the night air, “If you need me, Miss Stoker, ye can find me through Old Cap Mago.”
“Why would I need you?”
“To tell ye what I saw tonight.” Now his voice was even farther away. “Before the razzers arrived. Big crate, bein’ moved out. Guilty-lookin’ flimpers, four o’ ’em.”
“A crate? How big?”
He’d stopped, and although I had only an impression of where he was, I stared into the darkness. Why couldn’t I see him? I had excellent night vision.
“Bigger’n me. ’Eavy, from the looks o’ it,” Pix called from the shadows. “Put it in th’back o’ a wagon. One of ’em ’ad another thin’ too—long and slender. Like a cane. Went off southwise.”
“When? When did you see this? And what were you doing here?”
Silence. Drat. “Pix?”
There was no response from the darkness but a faint chuckle and the rustle of leaves.
In the distance, St. Paul’s tolled four, and I gave in to the urge to rub his kiss from my skin.
I hoped he was watching from the bushes.
Miss Holmes
Miss Holmes Has an Unexpected Visitor
I was exhausted when I climbed into the horseless cab outside the museum. Miss Stoker had somehow excused herself from being escorted home and disappeared on foot into the shadow of the colonnaded building. I had given my official statement to Luckworth, leaving out the minor detail of the museum intruder. I felt certain I’d see the foreigner again soon.
The cab had traveled a mere block from the museum when my suspicions were proved right.
A black shape across from me in the vehicle shifted and became a face, followed by two hands shining pale in the gray light of near dawn.
I froze, realizing that what I’d assumed was a pile of cushions and blankets—granted, not the usual accoutrements of a hackney cab in London—had been the foreign intruder, hiding in the darkest corner of t
he carriage. I’d been too tired and distracted to look closely.
I fumbled the Steam-Stream gun out and into my grip. It took me longer than it should have, yet the intruder held up his hands and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Of course you aren’t,” I said, juggling the gun into position, pointing at him from my seat. My fingers were a trifle shaky, but in the dark, he wouldn’t be able to tell. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” It occurred to me that I could have screamed and drawn the cabbie’s attention, but I’m by nature a curious person, and after all, I was the one who was armed.
“My name is Dylan Eckhert. And I . . . uh . . . I wanted to talk to you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be waxing the museum floors?” I asked.
“I didn’t really expect you to believe me.” He gave a little laugh. “Um . . . could I put my hands down now? I promise I’m not going to do anything but talk to you.”
“Very well. I want to talk to you too. But any movements on your part, and I pull the trigger and you’ll be blasted with steam.”
His first question surprised me. “Are you really Sherlock Holmes’s niece?”
“Of course I am.” I realized he must have been hovering about listening to the conversations with Grayling and Luckworth.
“But I thought Sherlock Holmes was a fictitious character,” Mr. Eckhert said. His expression was bewildered and perhaps a little frightened. “Am I in London? What year is this?”
Clearly, the stranger was suffering from a case of amnesia. Or he was utterly mad. And here I was, closed up in a carriage with him. I gripped the Steam-Stream gun more tightly. “My uncle is as real as you and I. And yes, you’re in London. The year is 1889. Who are you and where are you from? I want some answers.”
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