The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  A number of ticks and clicks stirred behind them. Gaspar nodded to the man with the machine strapped to half his face. The sentry spoke, “Most likely RALS built by Lovecraft. It is a surety the professor has allies in the Outremer, which explains the sudden disappearance of the RALS.”

  “RALS?” Phaeton queried.

  “Rat Ass Little Spiders,” the mechanized voice answered.

  Gaspar shook his head. “Lovecraft would never undertake such a great risk—not unless he was forced to do it. It is one thing to shift an object this powerful into the Outremer—but to recover such a stone?”

  America appeared to be bursting with questions. “You speak of—a terre au delà de la mer—a land beyond the sea.”

  “I refer to an alternate London, Miss Jones. A parallel, coexistent realm much more unstable than our own. And this world goes by many names—mostly we use the term Outremer.” Gaspar paused, as if evaluating how much to reveal to her. “If the Moonstone has been hidden in this adjacent domain it must be retrieved as quickly as possible.”

  She swallowed. “May I ask why?”

  Gaspar leaned forward and raised his voice considerably. “Because we are being infected with the same instability that is tearing apart their world.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I SEE.” America opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated.

  “Have a seat, Miss Jones.” Gaspar gestured to all of them. “Please make yourselves comfortable—sit, sit.” America was quite sure she detected an accent when Gaspar spoke. Old Spanish, perhaps Catalan or Basque?

  And the man was tenacious. “You must feel free to speak up Miss Jones—share what is on your mind.”

  Stunned for a moment, she caught her breath. When Gaspar smiled, a deep dimple ran down one side of his cheek. So much like Phaeton.

  America swallowed. “The first creature who tried to abduct me called himself Skeezick and spoke in a funny patois of rhyming Cockney. He referred to his ‘lath-n-plaster.’ ”

  “Likely means master,” Phaeton mused aloud.

  “Master or maker,” America agreed. “The creature claimed his master ‘tinkered him’ and many more like him.”

  Phaeton steered America over to a comfortable settee, while Gaspar asked about refreshments. “Tea? Whiskey? Absinthe?”

  The Shades’ leader reached for the bellpull on the wall. “The Outremer has been decimated by a pestilence twice. The unadulterated human species is rare over there—and London is becoming a rather desolate place. Someone—the maker, presumably, is popping out these strange ghouls and shifting them here.”

  Exeter had settled into a wing chair. “And how is it you’ve accumulated such knowledge?

  “We’ve caught and interrogated a few.” Gaspar’s gaze shifted to his small army. “And we’ve followed many more.”

  Phaeton asked the question they were all thinking. “You’ve all been over there?”

  Gaspar evaded Phaeton’s question. “During your absence, I recruited a small army of my own.” He nodded to his warrior specimens. “I don’t believe you’ve been formally introduced.”

  “Captain Jersey Blood.” Gaspar nodded to the imposing man, who snubbed out his cigar stubb. “Captain Blood is related to General Sir Bindon Blood. Comes from a long line of military men—as you may have sensed he is not entirely of this world. But I leave it to you to get to know one another.” Gaspar turned back to Phaeton and Exeter. “I have assigned the Nightshades to your protection—”

  “Is that really necessary?” Phaeton complained.

  “Think of it as a temporary inconvenience.” The cigar-chomping captain grinned.

  Gaspar pivoted to the fair-skinned female sitting close to Captain Blood. “The very lovely and dangerous Valentine Smyth. Miss Smyth in on permanent sabbatical from the Sisters of Mercy Convent in Mayfield. Suffice to say she began her unusual avocation by identifying priests as demons. She managed to scare the church hierarchy enough, and they ran her off before she finished the job. We are lucky to have her.” Gaspar’s smile was cagy—measured. “Though she makes Ping nervous.”

  She nodded politely. “Gaspar took me in after I chased down and eliminated a red-eyed devil on his doorstep.”

  Captain Blood crossed booted legs at the ankles. “When this is all over, I expect Valentine will try to liberate my head from my shoulders.”

  Despite the blush on her cheek, Valentine Smyth’s answer was almost chilly. “I have sworn my allegiance—for the duration—to Gaspar’s army.”

  “A very small army.” Phaeton snorted. “More of a squadron.”

  A tap at the door brought several servants into the study carrying tea trays and other libations. Gaspar waved off the help and set about pouring Darjeeling for himself and the ladies, while Phaeton, Exeter, and Captain Blood all opted for something stronger. The young man wearing the mask helped serve refreshments.

  “I plan to stop this invasion with talent, not numbers.” Gaspar sat back with his saucer and cup. “Cutter Coppersmith is a master shinobi trained warrior. He and Valentine are also our best trackers. They can sense where the portals move, and can facilitate a disruption insertion if necessary.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what happened to you?” America bit her lip, hoping she did not offend. “I only thought that perhaps it would be best . . .”

  “Yes, why not?” Coppersmith’s mechanical voice clicked and gasped. “Get the whole bloody story out of the way. My fifth trip over, I was captured and tortured. They took an eye—crushed my voice box. I lost hearing in this ear,” he banged his finger against a sculpted metal ear. Above the curve of the brass ear plate a small conical-shaped horn vacillated back and forth—picking up sound, presumably.

  “Mr. Coppersmith’s hearing has been enhanced tenfold beyond the human range.” Gaspar balanced his cup and saucer on his knee. “Professor Lovecraft’s handiwork. His science has advanced well beyond our time. So much so, he has now become a liability to our world.”

  America’s heart bled to think of young Coppersmith’s painful ordeal, but the apparatus he wore on his head fascinated her. “Do you see as well—out of the . . . ?” The pupil of the mechanical eye dilated wide, then slammed shut. It looked very much like a wink . . . in fact, it was a wink. “Well enough, Miss Jones.”

  America laughed and Cutter Coppersmith pressed full, rather sensuous lips together, his one remaining intact feature.

  She had once attended a demonstration of the Edison Speaking Phonograph, where a person’s speech might be copied and played back. It reminded her of the raspy voice that came out of his throat mechanism.

  What remained to be seen of Coppersmith was a shag of golden brown hair, a strong cheekbone and jaw line, and one dazzling green eye framed by dark lashes. The unadorned half of his face was startling proof he had at one time been an extraordinarily handsome man.

  Jersey Blood drained his glass. “Cutter has shifted over as many times as Gaspar. And he is the only one who has ever been close to the one who keeps popping out these Outremer vermin—Skeezicks and Grubbers—Reapers as well.

  Cutter removed a large key and inserted it into a slot behind his mechanized ear. In a matter-of-fact manner, he turned the key, just as one might wind a mantle clock. “Reapers are the worst—they’re strong and deadly quick—they punch in and out at will. Meet a large group of them and they’re nearly impossible to overcome.” Cutter returned the key to his waistcoat pocket. “It is likely Miss Jones’s attacker was a Skeezick or a Reaper.”

  She recalled a fleeting moment of terror. Thin, claw-like digits wrapped around her throat. A brief shudder brought Phaeton close. “All right?”

  America nodded.

  “One last introduction . . .” Gaspar looked up as he absently stirred his tea. “Please meet Ruby Darling.” He nearly crooned the attractive blonde’s name. “Because she is our darling from down under.”

  “Don’t moon, Gaspar.” The statuesque young woman returned the man’s obvious interest with a p
iercing blue gaze. “I know you don’t mean to be demeaning and insulting—you just can’t help yourself.” She shifted her gaze. “My name’s Ruby Nash.”

  Phaeton winked at America. “I like her already.”

  Gaspar ignored the remark. “Ruby is a seer and translator. She also trained in Japan in the stealth warrior arts with Cutter. In fact, while Cutter was being rehabilitated from his injuries, it was he who recommended Ruby.” Now it was Gaspar’s turn to mock Phaeton. “She became my bodyguard . . . so to speak.”

  “Do you two always spar like this?” America shook her head. “All the artfulness, and the outfoxing one-upsmanship—”

  “Bloody tedious, if you ask me,” Ruby chimed in with a snort.

  America had just met Gaspar, but she almost sympathized with Phaeton. Then again, Phaeton had done nothing to help his cause. He had acted the perfect hell-raiser to Gaspar’s charming, tolerant older brother, which no doubt goaded Phaeton no end.

  Gaspar set his cup down with a clink. “There is another you will soon meet. His name is Tim Noggy. More of a practical man—a specialist who helps us get in and out. We’re going nowhere without him and he’s missing at the moment.”

  “And where, might I ask, are we going?” Phaeton’s query brought America to the edge of her seat.

  Even as Gaspar’s eyes narrowed, a slight curl lifted the ends of his mouth. “To find and recover the Moonstone, of course.”

  Exeter swallowed a last sip of whiskey in his glass. “It seems evident you and I forced Lovecraft to hide the stone in this alternate world.”

  “What if . . .”—Phaeton straightened—“the mechanized rodents made it over, but for whatever reason the professor didn’t?”

  Jersey Blood placed his elbows on his thighs and hunched forward. “That would mean the RALS are mindlessly scurrying around on the other side—with enough power to rip the universe apart.”

  “Or put it back together?” America offered.

  Gaspar studied her, to the point it made her uncomfortable. “I sense you have abilities—but they are not yet reliable skills—very much like Phaeton.”

  “The aether is strong in them. All they need is training.” Blood’s grin was less sardonic without the cigar.

  She had to ask. “What is it like in the Outremer?”

  “The other side is neither above nor below us. It exists in a sea of potent aether, more vision than dream. It is most likely an extra-dimensional plane of existence.” Gaspar’s distant gaze darkened. “A reality much like our own, only starkly different. And their world is unraveling.”

  “And I was hoping for Wonderland,” Phaeton mused aloud.

  Gaspar stared at him. “You will weep for wonder.” The clock on the mantle chimed three times. “It is late. We will assemble here tomorrow at dusk. Before bed this evening, you will think of an everyday object. Something you hold on your person or might find in a gentleman’s study. Next, as you think of this object, you will drink a few sips of liquid from the backside of a glass.”

  Phaeton rose from the settee and stretched. “Whiskey?”

  Gaspar eyeballed him. “Preferably water, but in your case . . .” The man shrugged. “Just stay away from absinthe.”

  “Why?” Phaeton rolled his shoulders. “Just . . . out of curiosity.”

  Gaspar stared. “I’d advise against it—unless you want a pestering green fairy about. Your first experience in the Outremer will be distracting enough.”

  Jersey Blood nodded. “I sense this will not be an ordinary crossing. Such a concentration of aether will not go unnoticed. There will be more patrols about.” The captain turned to Phaeton. “They will use any device or amount of force to find and coerce you into unleashing the stone’s essence, including and most especially the abduction of Miss Jones.”

  “Think of our worlds as two sides of a single coin,” Gaspar explained. “If the powers that be in the Outremer don’t restore equilibrium, their side of the coin becomes more and more unstable. As it is, I believe they have already begun to drag us into a dangerous dance.”

  Phaeton appeared a bit dazed as he swallowed a last dram of whiskey. “Lovecraft has to be linked to this—I’m sure he was the one who had me shanghaied.”

  Gaspar reclined against the arm of his chair. “Let’s play Professor Lovecraft carefully. He is more knowledgeable about the goings on over there than he lets on. Perhaps we can learn something.”

  Phaeton exhaled loudly. “For the record I’d just like to state I have no idea how to unleash these powers in the stone.” His scan of the room landed on the Shade’s leader. “For the record.”

  “I believe I know someone who can help with that.” Gaspar’s attention moved to the shadow standing in the open door. “Ah, Mr. Ping.”

  Chapter Nine

  PHAETON WAS PLEASED TO SEE a comfortable-looking carriage waiting in the yard outside Pennyfields. Cutter jumped on back, taking the footman’s station, while Ruby climbed up beside the driver.

  Ping handed America inside the large town coach and turned to him. “Behind the boxwood planter.” Almond-shaped, mercury eyes caught a flicker of gaslight. “He’s asked for a minute of your time, Phaeton.”

  He made his way over to the tall, imposing man in the shadows. “Zander Farrell—I might have known Scotland Yard would be curious.”

  “Secret Branch is more than curious.” Zander stepped forward. “I had no idea you were back in town.”

  Phaeton eyeballed the two officers standing behind the detective. “I arrived just this morning—was I supposed to check in with you?”

  Zander sent the two men farther down the alley. “I’m told there was quite a breach of the peace in the Silver Lion this evening. Care to tell me about it?”

  He saw no reason to obfuscate. “It seems I have a role to play here in London—not particularly pleased about it.”

  A gust of cold mist swirled into the lane and settled along the pavers. Likely wisps of fog, but then one could never be sure. Zander turned up his coat collar. “Mysterious goings on since you’ve been gone, Phaeton.”

  The understatement caused a grin. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Like to tell us about it, say—in Chilcott’s office?”

  Phaeton backed away. “Two o’clock, tomorrow afternoon.” He climbed into the carriage and settled himself cozily between America and Valentine. As the carriage lurched off, Captain Blood took one side of the carriage, while his female cohort watched the other. Not wishing to distract them from their duties, Phaeton settled his gaze on Doctor Exeter. At Pennyfields tonight he had been uncharacteristically taciturn and appeared inordinately preoccupied. “Esmeralda is worried about you.”

  Exeter shifted his gaze away and back. “There was an incident at University—something of an occult nature took place near the house where Mia is boarding. Whatever happened frightened her terribly.”

  Exeter spoke of his ward, a very lovely young lady who was off attending lectures at Oxford. “What kind of incident?”

  “She won’t speak much about it, but suffice to say, what appears to have happened is so unlike Mia, I am at a loss as to how to help her.” Exeter’s expression was grim.

  “Might I be of assistance?” America edged forward on the seat. “Mia and I got on well together at Roos House.”

  Exeter blinked several times before a wave of relief shone in his eyes. “I would be very much indebted to you, Miss Jones. She has decided to take a break from her curriculum and will return home by week’s end.”

  “America and I shall pop by for a visit. You and I will slip away, some sort of errand—leave the ladies to their heart-to-heart. We might pay Lovecraft a visit—something bruising and informal.” The mere mention of the inventor’s name brought Captain Blood’s attention back inside the cabin.

  Phaeton met the captain’s gaze. “What? Can I not have a private conversation—”

  “Nothing is private,” Blood bluntly interrupted, “not if you want to live.”

 
Even as he narrowed his eyes, Phaeton stifled a yawn. He looked forward to being back in the flat with America alone. He did not relish the thought of these large hooded sentinels posted about the brothel or the flat. On the other hand, he would sleep easier knowing they were on watch.

  “You realize my flat is situated below a brothel—you can’t go barging in there wielding swords.”

  “I expect the ladies are used to men flashing swords.” Blood’s gaze moved to Valentine. “This is likely to be a withering change from the nunnery.”

  The lady raised a brow. “Because I come from a convent you think I am easily shocked.” Her gaze locked with Blood’s. “Women in service to their benefactor—providing a path to heaven . . . ?”

  America nudged Phaeton. “I like her.”

  Outside 21 Shaftesbury Court, Jersey Blood assigned Cutter and Valentine to the flat. “Ruby and I will see Doctor Exeter to the residence on Half Moon Street. Depending on how secure he is, either one or both of us will return here to guard the upper floor and roof.”

  It was obvious he and America were considered targets of value by Gaspar and his band of Japan-trained stealth warriors. They’d received an impressive demonstration of stealth, and seen something of their weaponry—but the warrior part? Time would tell, he supposed.

  Inside the house, Esmeralda appeared to be in excellent spirits, especially after he conveyed a rather sweet message from Exeter. Phaeton introduced his guests. “Gaspar calls them Nightshades.” Phaeton sighed. “It seems London is in need of rescuing and America and I require protection.”

  Esmeralda gave the hooded guards an interested once-over and turned to Phaeton, “Would that be Gaspar Sinclair?”

  Momentarily stunned, Phaeton nodded. “That name—the one you just spoke. Pretend you never heard it.” By the look on Esmeralda’s face, she knew Gaspar all right—in the naked, rolling around under the sheets, biblical sense of the word. He cleared his throat. “I promise you won’t know they’re around.”

  In answer to Phaeton’s pledge, Cutter faded into the staircase banister and Valentine merged into the flock-work wallpaper pattern. “My word.” Esmeralda gasp was more of a whisper. Both Nightshades reappeared. “I might like to borrow one of those cloaks.” The madam rolled a pocket door closed with a wink. “Do a bit of checking up on the girls.”