“I would have been here sooner, had you requested my help,” I replied. Glancing at the never-ending piles of books, I thanked Fortune she hadn’t.
“I wasn’t suggesting you offer your assistance,” Miss Holmes replied, her nose back in the book. “I was under the impression this was precisely the sort of endeavor with which you preferred not to be involved.” She glanced up at me with a flash of chilly green-brown eyes. “My experience is that you’re more inclined toward drawing attention to yourself so you can demonstrate your superior fighting skills, regardless of the dangers involved or the prudence of such activity.”
Right. Definitely sulking.
“And, clearly, without any semblance of plan or organization,” she added, thumping the book closed in emphasis.
I bit my lip. So I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t meant to draw attention to myself. I was just . . . doing what I was made to do.
I cast a covert glance at Miss Adler to see her reaction, but the lady seemed engrossed in the book she was reading.
“I would have been here to provide my help with whatever you’re doing. But I received no communication from you.”
Miss Holmes sniffed. “I didn’t realize you required a summons to your duty.”
My spine stiffened. “I—”
“Perhaps,” Miss Adler said without looking up from her page, “you might bring Evaline up to date on our discoveries and theories, Mina.”
Miss Holmes set her book aside and looked up at me. “You might as well take a seat.”
Her cheeks had tinged pink at Miss Adler’s gentle direction. I noticed for the first time that her rich golden-brown hair was in nothing more than a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Dark patches under her eyes made her appear tired, and her dress was rumpled. Had something bad happened? If so, I hadn’t been here to help. I’d been doing my own sulking.
“We’ve been researching Sekhmet’s instruments for the last five days,” Miss Holmes told me as I moved a pile of books to sit on a nearby chair. “I’ve not even left the museum and hardly slept—there are so many references to review. We believe that someone, presumably the Ankh and her Society of Sekhmet, is attempting to follow a legendary formula involving four items that either belonged to the goddess—which is unlikely—or somehow have some supernatural tendencies attributed to her.”
“What sort of instruments?” I asked, thinking of pianos and violins.
“A scepter, a diadem or crown, a cuff or bracelet, and a sistrum, which is a musical instrument.”
Right. Well, I hadn’t been that far off.
I listened with growing interest as she described each of the instruments. They’d found several passages about them in a collection of books and scrolls, and they were even mentioned on a stone with hieroglyphics on it. This sort of puzzle, tinged with supernatural and otherworldly elements, reminded me of the stories from my vampire- and demon-fighting family tree. One of my family members had battled an UnDead who attempted to infuse a large obelisk with evil traits.
“What did the hieroglyphics say?”
My companion gave me a pained look. “Hieroglyphs, not hieroglyphics. The former is the text or the characters, the latter is an adjective. To wit, a hieroglyphic text.”
I glared, and she continued, “The hieroglyphs clearly represented Sekhmet and her instruments, which gives credence to the writings we found in scrolls and papers that simply couldn’t have existed—or at least survived—for the thousands of years since Sekhmet was worshipped as the favored goddess. Thus, we believe the instruments do, or did, exist. But other than that, we haven’t found any further information about where the instruments were, where they might be now, and what they could be used for if collected together—which is the crux of the text that originally sent us off in this direction.” Exhaustion showed in her face. “We could be completely wrong about this, and meanwhile, more girls could die.”
“Wait,” I said, my eyes widening. “A scepter?”
“A scepter, a diadem, a—”
“Some men were taking a large, heavy crate from the museum on the night Miss Hodgeworth was killed, and one of them also had a long, slender object.”
“A large crate? Large enough for the statue of Sekhmet to fit in? Who was it?”
“How the blooming fish should I know? Someone who didn’t want to be seen. Or someone involved with the Society of Sekhmet.”
Did that mean Pix was involved? If so, why would he tell me about it? Was it possible he was aware of the Society of Sekhmet too?
“I don’t know anything more, but I can try to find out while you continue to research more information.” I didn’t try to hide my delight. At least I could be doing something instead of poring over page after page of cramped, faded, archaic writing.
“Did you see the thieves? Do you remember anything—”
“No, I didn’t see them. He said they went off southwise, though,” I added to myself.
“He? Whom do you mean?”
“Some con artist who goes by the name of Pix. I found him lurking around the outside of the museum after you left that night, and he told me.” I stood with enthusiasm. “I’ll track down Pix and get as much information as I can.”
I was nearly to the door when Miss Holmes spoke again. “There is one other situation of which you might like to be apprised, Miss Stoker. If you can bear to be detained long enough for me to do so.”
“Carry on.” The sooner I was out of the room and on the streets, the better.
“Mr. Dylan Eckhert is the young foreigner we found with Miss Hodgeworth’s body,” she said. “He’s been staying here at the museum because he has an unusual problem.”
“Why? Is he partial to hieroglyphs?” I couldn’t help but ask. Miss Adler’s lips twitched, but she remained silent.
“No,” Miss Holmes said in a cool, affronted voice. “He’s traveled more than a hundred years through time, back from the future.”
Right. I blinked. And let the concept settle.
The rest of London would never believe it of their staid, gear-ridden, mechanized world. Vampires. Demons. Supernatural instruments supposedly belonging to an Egyptian goddess . . . and now time travel?
Fascinating and intriguing.
Because of this, Miss Holmes probably expected more from me than a nod of comprehension. But being a vampire hunter, I wasn’t easily surprised by supernatural things. I simply asked, “Does he know how it happened?”
“He isn’t precisely certain, but he believes it had something to do with a man-size statue of Sekhmet. He was near it, and there was an illuminated scarab in its base. When he touched it, something happened and he was transported back in time. When Mr. Eckhert became aware of his surroundings, he realized the statue was gone and he was in a different place and time. I have no theories as yet what caused such an event, but I continue to consider a variety of possibilities. In the meantime, Mr. Eckhert has been assisting us with our research. However, he prefers to spend an inordinate amount of time in the empty chamber belowstairs where he arrived so suddenly. I believe he’s hoping something will happen to reconnect him with his world.”
“Thank you for telling me.” I was sincere. The poor sod. He’d been shuttled back in time to a strange place with no way of returning home? “I’ll look forward to meeting Mr. Eckhert again at the first opportunity. But now I’m going to locate Pix and see if he can give me any more information.”
“He’s likely our only hope, for any footprints or clues outside of the museum would have been obliterated in the last week. If you had seen fit to tell me about this sooner, I would have been able to examine the scene.”
I nodded, gritting my teeth. “You’re staying here at the museum?”
“For now. It’s more efficient than traveling back and forth, and I’ve had clothing sent over.”
“Then I’ll contact you here once I have news.”
As I rode in a ground-level horse-drawn hackney back to Grantworth House, I mulled over the best w
ay to locate a shadowy thief in the dangerous London stews. Pix told me if I needed to find him, to ask for . . . Old Cap Anglo? Mango? No, Mago. Old Cap Mago. Who or what was that?
I went home to dress and arm myself for a visit to Whitechapel. Once home, I learned that Florence didn’t have any evening plans. Blast it! She’d be in all night, making it difficult for me to sneak out . . . and she would also want to ask about my visit to the museum with Miss Bane. She would also be filled with gossip about Miss Hodgeworth’s death. Even though it had been a week since the girl was killed, the tragedy was still a topic of conversation and worry.
I resigned myself to eating dinner with my family.
Naturally, Bram was at the Lyceum Theatre. But Noel, who was ten, ate with Florence and me. In fact, he managed to steal the last piece of apple bread right out from under my hand. He gave me a big, satisfied grin as my fingers closed over an empty plate. I glowered at him, but at the same time, I wanted to tousle his thick, dark hair.
“How was your visit to the museum, Evvie?” Florence asked, adding sugar to her after-supper tea. The Sweet-Loader whirred softly as its wheel turned and three lumps plopped into the cup. “Mrs. Yarmouth made a point of saying how much she missed you today. And last week as well.” She raised an elegant brow meaningfully. “And your appetite seems to have returned.”
“The museum was crowded. And Miss Banes didn’t make it after all.” I realized I’d eaten two beef short ribs, a large pile of roasted parsnips and potatoes, a generous serving of greens . . . and a piece of apple bread. I was going to have to loosen my corset before going out tonight. I eyed a plate of slivered pears.
“Mrs. Dancy asked after you as well,” Florence said, hand-stirring her tea with small, neat circles. “She mentioned her son Richard. Apparently, there was a mishap with lemonade? At the Cosgrove-Pitts’.” Her spoon clinked sharply against the side of the cup.
Drat! I forgot about the pears. “Uhm . . .”
“That’s not a particularly polite or ladylike sound,” my surrogate mother said. She speared me with her gaze. “I was under the impression you hadn’t received an invitation to the Roses Ball, Evaline. You knew how much I was hoping to attend with you.” Along with the displeasure in her eyes was a note of regret.
I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Florence,” I said, trying to think of an excuse . . . and a way to remove that disappointment. She loved parties and gowns and frothy things. “I . . .” The problem was, I never spoke a direct falsehood to her. That was why I’d hidden the invitation in the first place so I could tell her I didn’t see it—because I hadn’t actually opened and read it.
Being a vampire hunter who didn’t lie was impossible.
“I know you don’t care for those formal occasions,” she said in a milder voice. “But it’s a necessity, dear Evvie. Bram and I promised your parents we’d make sure you were taken care of, that you’d be married off well to a nice young man from a good family. One that could take care of you.”
I could take care of myself. But Florence—and the rest of the world—would never understand that. “I’m sorry,” I said again.
“I’m utterly confused as to why you attended the ball anyway, but without a chaperone. What if you had met someone completely inappropriate? What if something had happened to put you in a compromising position with him? Then what would I tell your parents—and Bram?”
An image of Pix rose in my mind. Could there have been anyone more inappropriate at the ball? Or a more compromising position than hiding behind a heavy curtain with a thief?
Thank St. Pete that Florence hadn’t chaperoned me.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Evvie. To that end, I’ve asked Mrs. Gernum to save all of the mail for me in the future. And you and I will review all of the invitations and determine which ones we will attend. Together. I take my commitment to your parents very seriously. And your well-being too.”
Right, then. How many vampire hunters got reprimanded about attending balls and being chaperoned? Surely I was the only one.
“Yes, ma’am.” By now, my head was pounding and my stomach roiling, so it wasn’t a lie when I said, “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to go lie down.”
Florence gave me a shrewd look, then nodded. Her lips were flattened, once again reminding me how much I’d hurt and offended her. “Very well, Evaline. But I expect you to be awake and breakfasting by nine tomorrow morning. You’ll be going with me to the milliner’s and Madame Varney’s.”
Drat. Madame Varney was a seamstress, but going there was more of a social excursion than a shopping trip.
“Of course,” I said. And fled.
Once in my chamber, I rang for Pepper, hoping she’d returned from her afternoon walk with her beau, Chumly. I needed assistance to prepare for tonight’s excursion. I’d be leaving as soon as I could climb out the window, even though the sun wouldn’t be setting for another two hours. She was the only other household member who knew about my secret life. She was clever and enthusiastic when it came to arming and equipping me for my dangerous tasks.
Pepper placed a two-finger-wide stake in its mechanized sharpener and flipped the switch. It whirred as the small wooden stick spun in place, a long peel like that of an apple falling away from the new point.
“M’great-gramma Verbena allays said to hide an extra stake in yer coy-fure,” she said, sliding a slender wooden pike down into the mass of braids she’d already done up in a tight knot. “An’ keep an’ extry one in yer sleeve.” She handed me the newly sharpened stake.
“I’m going to need more than stakes tonight, Pepper. I’m hunting a mortal, not an UnDead. Where did you put my pistol?”
My maid’s strawberry-blonde hair bounced as she selected other implements to slide into my tool belt. She kept her hair cut short, because its wild, frizzy curls were impossible to confine in any sort of hairstyle. I wanted to cut my hair short, for long tails were a liability when in a fight, but my maid always argued otherwise. “An’ where would I put the stakes if ye did that?”
She produced the pistol, and I slipped it in a holster beneath my man’s coat, followed by a supply of ammunition. A knife went down inside one tall boot, and other useful items dangled from the insides of my coat.
Instead of wearing a tight corset beneath a split-skirted ensemble, I’d chosen to dress as a lower-class man in trousers and boots. I donned a loose neckerchief around my neck, arranging it beneath the open collar of a dingy shirtwaist. Tonight I wore a special corset that flattened my curves instead of enhancing them. A piece of string tied the coat together where the buttons would have been, and one of the cuffs was missing. The stake and another knife had been slipped inside the lining of each sleeve. A soft, slouching hat hid my tightly braided hair, which Pepper had pinned painfully in place.
Then she used a piece of burned cork to give my face dirt smudges and a hint of stubble. Powder lightened the color of my lips and the cast of my skin as well. A pouch of money completed my ensemble. I was equipped for anything.
Even Pix.
Warning Pepper to dissuade Florence, who might come to check on me, I climbed out the window. Moments later, I was down the maple tree, reveling in the freedom of trousers and low-heeled boots.
It was a long ground-level walk to Whitechapel and Spitalfields. They were the most violent and dangerous neighborhoods of London and where I would begin my search. In the interest of time, I found a hackney. But I got out at St. Paul’s and walked the rest of the way so as to keep my disguise as an impoverished young man.
Big Ben announced it was eight o’clock. The sun was low, its glow hardly able to slip between the crowded London rooftops and chimneys. The ever-present black smoke clouds billowed into the darkening sky, interrupting the pale pink sunset. A gaslighter sang some happy ditty as he extended a long, mechanized arm to illuminate a streetlamp. It came to life with a small, pleasant pop.
The farther east I went, the dingier, closer, and more putrid the streets became. Here in Whi
techapel, the sewer-chutes were almost nonexistent, and those that were there were often clogged and left to unclog themselves or fill up and overspill. And in this area, the upper-level walkways were the more dangerous and dirty ones. One well-placed push could send an unsuspecting person tumbling off the streetwalk and down to the cobblestones. Because the streetwalks were narrow, mechanized vehicles were uncommon even at ground level. Horse-drawn ones passed through without pausing unless required to. People loitered on street corners, in shadowy alleys, and in small clusters near the steps of dark-windowed buildings.
It took only a few well-placed questions for me to learn that Old Cap Mago could be found at a public house called Fenmen’s End.
The pub was small and dark, like everything else in Whitechapel. Its entrance was three floors above the ground level. I rode up in an old, creaky lift that had been jammed open and didn’t require any toll. As I walked across the narrow fly-bridge spanning the air-canal, I looked down and saw one man throw another into the overflowing sewer canal.
Inside, the pub was loud and smoky. In the corner was a self-playing piano attached to a small steam engine. The off-key notes could hardly be heard over the grinding, squeaking mechanism. Three large fans whirred from the ceiling. They seemed to just press the smoke down instead of causing it to dissipate.
I’d never been in a place like this before: filled with men drinking, smoking, and swearing. In the corner, a group of spectators cheered on two men who were arm wrestling.
For the first time, I felt a shiver of uncertainty. I didn’t have a plan. I was used to walking along dark streets and waiting to be accosted by thugs, or seeking out vampires by sensing their presence. That was much different than having to pretend to be a man in a man’s world. I could take care of myself as long as I wasn’t outnumbered. But in here, in this crowded, confined place . . .
I’d have to keep my voice low and masculine, my cap on, and act like everyone else. With all the cursing and whooping going on, it didn’t seem as if it would be too difficult.
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