The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  Valentine stared. “What are you doing?”

  Something hit the window next to America and she drew back. Large dark eyes stared into hers—black orbs with no whites. Strange waving tentacles, like long thick locks of hair, undulated around the creature’s head. So this was a Reaper. The jaw dropped down and a cavernous mouth opened, revealing layers of pointed teeth and something else. She caught a fleeting glance of a tongue curled up inside the mouth like a snake ready to strike. As suddenly as the creature had appeared, an arm reached down and yanked it out of sight. Her gaze tracked a bloodcurdling cry and a number of thuds back to the roof.

  Tim Noggy pointed the pipe toward the mêlée above. “Hold on, I think I know which one’s which.” The moment Noggy toggled the lever, the screeching stopped—and the pounding. All that could be heard was a sucking and gurgling noise from the pipe-like object and the occasional patter of raindrops. Coincidentally it seemed the cloudburst had passed.

  America swallowed. “What did you just do, Mr. Noggy?”

  The moonfaced young man lifted his brows and shoulders simultaneously. “I shifted the Reaper back to the Outremer.”

  America felt a bit dizzy—much like Alice must have felt plunging down the rabbit hole. “Is the Reaper gone or is it not?”

  A shy smile broadened. “It’s gone.”

  Cutter poked his head in the window. “Gone but not out for the count. We’ll likely meet up with him again on the other side—right Tim?” He unlatched the door and swung himself into the coach, feet first. He plopped down between America and Ruby.

  America marveled at the peculiar new man. Noggy was obviously gifted but appeared to have little confidence in his expertise. He was also an assemblage of unsightly features. Stringy hair—much too long and shaggy, and a massive rough of beard, all in need of trimming. America’s nose told her the generous sized lad was also in very great need of a bath. But he had a sweet smile and that odd metal pipe was . . . impressive.

  Cutter stuck the key in his neck and cranked. “Damn fine work. That one was a tough little bugger.”

  Noggy’s eyes flashed upward. “Spot o’ luck, mate—all I did was open this tube and it sucked the Reaper in.” He gave America a shy glance. “Seriously, it doesn’t work half the time.”

  Cutter grinned. “Tim gets us into the Outremer and back out. In fact, he’s in charge of training you and Mr. Black. Your first time or two can be tricky.”

  America managed a tightlipped smile. “Lovely.”

  Phaeton reached up to knock and the door opened. It was Chilcott himself and standing behind him, Detective Zander Farrell. “Mr. Black, about time you arrived. And you’ve brought a friend.” The Scotland Yard director gave a once-over to Captain Blood, who had dressed in proper street clothes, sans cloak and dagger—or sword.

  Phaeton quickly made introductions. “Elliot Chilcott, this is Captain Blood, my . . . bodyguard.”

  Chilcott gave his muttonchops a nervous tug. “Good God, Phaeton, has it come to this?”

  “Things . . .”—Phaeton shifted his gaze between Zander and Chilcott—“are pretty bad out there.”

  “Yes, we’ve noticed,” the director grumbled.

  Phaeton might have shared more, but why disturb Chilcott any more than necessary? Scotland Yard was fairly useless against the darker forces of the fey world. But on occasion, they were awfully handy to have around.

  Chilcott turned to his bodyguard. “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to be related to General Sir Bindon Blood?”

  The captain stared, then nodded, reluctantly. “Quite closely related, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, we’re estranged.”

  “Indeed,” Chilcott grunted as he stepped past them. “We were just on our way over to the mortician’s office. Join us.”

  Phaeton rolled his eyes. “What’s this all about?”

  Zander fell back beside him. “Prominent men have been dying in their beds. Heart failure was at the top of the list for a few weeks. But after several postmortem examinations we’re beginning to believe they were suffocated.”

  And here, Phaeton thought he was being called in to be interrogated about Grubbers and Reapers. “The bodies are intact. No missing parts?”

  “Just dead.” Zander led the way downstairs. “By some form of asphyxiation. We thought you might know what’s lurking about town these days.”

  “Have you consulted Reynolds’s Weekly? I’m told there have been reports of strange creatures about.” He caught a raised brow from Jersey Blood and quickly added, “your victims sound like they might have suffered an encounter with a succubus.”

  Chilcott grunted. “Succubus—some sort of she-devil?”

  “A demon in female form who has carnal intercourse with men in their sleep.” Zander recited as though he was reading out of Underwood’s Dictionary of the Occult.

  “Salacious, ghastly idea.” Chilcott stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “But how is this life-threatening?”

  “Succubi drain the life force from men while they’re asleep.” When Chilcott blinked, Phaeton painted him a picture. “The man dreams of a beautiful naked woman making love to him. She slips between his legs—a hand slides under his nightshirt and up the inside of his thigh. Her breasts sway just above his face. Perhaps she dips down and lets him taste. Caught in a reverie of desire, he feels a bit of pressure on his chest, a touch of sleep paralysis. Then when he is fully immobilized and at her mercy, the she-devil takes his life with a kiss.”

  Chilcott’s mouth dropped open. “Might you know how we go about . . .”

  “Catching the perpetrator?” Phaeton evaluated the two Yard men in front of him. “Rather dangerous work chasing down these wily women—they take on many forms.”

  “Any leads you’ve got would be greatly appreciated. I can put a man on them straight away.” Zander offered.

  “I may have a few names for you.” Phaeton grinned. “Georgiana, Velvet, and Fleury.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “MY WORD YOU LOOK RAVISHING. Might I ravish you, Miss Jones?” Phaeton slipped in beside America at Gaspar’s library table.

  “You and Captain Blood made it here just in time,” she harrumphed

  “Apologies, we should have traveled by river this time of day. Had a miserable time finding a cab.”

  The slight eye roll and tilt to the master’s chin smacked of impatience, still it appeared Gaspar was curious. “And how is Scotland Yard these days?”

  “Unnerved. And rather occupied chasing after succubi at the moment.”

  Gaspar nodded. “Good.”

  Phaeton made a cursory scan of the study. “Where’s the doctor?”

  Gaspar settled into a wing chair. “In a few minutes we will be traveling to a location on Fleet Street, where we hope Doctor Exeter will join us.” The Shades’ leader gestured to a wild-haired young man with plenty of flesh on him. “Phaeton Black, meet Tim Noggy.”

  “Your reputation proceeds you . . . all good, mate.” When Phaeton glared, Noggy backed away. “Good in a bad way?”

  “Tim keeps track of the dregs,” Gaspar explained. “And, on occasion, gets cornered by them. This afternoon, while you and Jersey were consulting with Director Chilcott and Zander Farrell, the lovely Miss Jones and the remaining Nightshades managed to rendezvous with Tim and bring him safely in.” The Shades’ leader waved Valentine and Ruby over to the table. “Tim also happens to be an excellent instructor. He will act as supervisor for this expedition.” Gaspar gave him the nod. “Make your briefing—brief, Tim.”

  Phaeton sized up their otherworld guide. “Will you refresh my memory as to why America and I need to embark on this maiden voyage?”

  Tim stared. “Because you’re the Moonstone man. If anyone can get us close to the stone, it’s you, mate.” Tim rolled his eyes, “Nobody on either side can get a drop of aether out of the stone without you.” The large man’s gaze shifted to America, “She’s vulnerable in this whole deal because of you . . .”

  Pha
eton nodded. “I understand she needs protecting at all times.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, but it is also imperative that America is familiar with the basics. How to get in, how to navigate the city, and most important, how to find her way home.” Gaspar winked at America, which irked Phaeton no end. “After she completes her training, we can likely spare a guard to remain here with her. Reapers patrol in much greater numbers on the other side. It is always advisable to bring as many Nightshades as possible with you.

  Tim cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Right. So . . . does everyone remember their inkling?”

  “Inkling?” America asked.

  “Insertion. Reentry. Inklings. Terms we use to describe things that defy description,” Jersey Blood explained. The captain rested an elbow on the curved arm of the chaise longue.

  “The everyday object you selected last night is your inkling.” Tim raised his hands, palms out. “Whatever you do, don’t speak your inkling out loud. But I do ask you to write it down.”

  “Why can’t we speak it out loud?” Phaeton queried.

  “It weakens the charm.” The cherub-faced young man passed out strips of notepaper. He pushed a canister full of stubby pencils into the center of the table. “An inkling is a kind of trigger or recall device which allows us to pass between worlds.”

  Tim Noggy swept around the library table, completely agile for a young man of such bulk. “When you first start to—slip in and out—there’s a kind of an adjustment period. Your inkling is like a clue—it points the way out. We can get you in there, but everyone has to find their own way back.”

  “Eyes to yourself—no peeking at each other’s papers.” Tim leaned over Phaeton’s shoulder. “Sorry, mate, you’d better print those letters—I’ll never be able to read that.”

  Gaspar leaned back into his throne-like wing chair. “The task for your first tour will be simple. You will be given the name of a hotel to locate. Once there, you will ask for a room and you will be given a key. Inside the room, you will search for your inkling. If you do not find your inkling, look for a related object. Be acutely attuned for clues and use all of your senses. The hints to your reentry can be a whisper or something so obvious a person can’t readily perceive it.” Gaspar grinned “These inklings can also take the form of a riddle or puzzle, which when solved will be your way out.”

  Phaeton twirled his pencil between fingers. “Why was I expecting something more . . . scientific?”

  “More like Jules Verne.” Tim Noggy circled a chubby finger at the group. “A person’s ability to move from one field to another has more to do with perception than reality.”

  Phaeton stared at Tim.

  Tim returned the stare. “Best not to get too deep in the weeds. And I don’t expect you to have any problems.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the weirdness is strong in you, mate.” The stout young man continued his stroll around the table. “Now turn the sheet over and write your inkling again, only this time write it backward.”

  Phaeton finished in a flash and glanced about the room. He noticed none of the other males in the room were scribbling. Jersey and Cutter were stretched out on settees and wing chairs. “Why aren’t they writing?”

  “Rather a long story—just consider yourself fortunate you need a trigger,” Gaspar replied. An entirely unsatisfactory answer and typical of the Gentleman Nightshade who clearly had something to hide.

  Tim collected the strips of notepaper and handed them to Mr. Ping. “Ping will be the keeper of the inklings.”

  Ping’s pale silver eyes dilated into large black orbs, like a cat’s eyes in a dark room. “Should one of you not return—I will go in after you.” He turned to Gaspar. “The hour between light and dark approaches. We must get ourselves to 16 Wine Office Court.”

  The only good thing about being stuffed into Gaspar’s town coach was having America on his lap. Phaeton settled her into the crook of his arm. “That narrow little pedestrian walk outside the Cheshire Cheese is the entry point? We were just there the other night—for chops and a pint.” He snorted at the thought.

  Tim Noggy opened the satchel on his lap and passed out pocketsize mirrors. “Expect some disorientation at first. Don’t be surprised if you have trouble reading street signs, storefronts—left to right becomes right to left. The mirrors can help, especially if you have to read.”

  Tim dug back inside his bag. “Or—you can wear these.” He pulled out a pair of strange looking spectacles. “Noggle Goggles. They enhance vision and there’s also a listening device.”

  Phaeton reached for the glasses. “I’ve used these before.” He buckled on the goggles and adjusted the eyepieces. Outside the carriage streetlamps glowed the most lurid chartreuse color.

  “Yeah, you have. These are based on one of Doctor Exeter’s original designs, but they’ve been modified to pick up on Grubbers and Reapers.” Tim looked around the cabin. “I have another couple of pairs, who wants them?” When everyone reached out, Tim had to choose. “Ruby—you already have enhanced vision. Miss Jones—stick like glue to Mr. Black.” He gave the goggles to Valentine and Jersey. “Take good care of these, you don’t want to know how much they cost Gaspar.”

  Tim studied the goggle wearers and grinned. “Adds a bit of swagger. You’ll find that most of the perception issues go away in time.”

  The carriage pulled up outside the Cheshire Cheese so they could watch the pedestrian traffic down the narrow court off Fleet Street. “Jersey and Cutter, you need to make the jump now—give the Reapers something to chase.”

  Cutter hopped down from his footman’s station at the back of the carriage and opened the door. “Ready?”

  Tim caught Phaeton’s eye with a wink. “Watch this.” It was near twilight—they all hunkered down inside the carriage and watched Jersey and Cutter turn down the passageway. They both had their capes on and hoods up. With the goggles everything was seen, including a fleeting glance at the strange, tentacle-haired creature just ahead of the two Nightshades.

  “A Reaper—and he’s a big one. The simplest way to pass through is a disruption insertion,” Tim whispered. “Which means one person disrupts while the other slips through quietly. But it is also the most dangerous way in. All the Reapers near the insertion point will be alerted to your presence and there are patrols of those things over there.”

  The creature passed under a pedestrian bridge, and Cutter sprinted ahead. A flash like a sheet of lightning illuminated the struggle—Cutter tackled the wiry devil, while Jersey slipped past and disappeared. Cutter swung around, leaped into the air, and kicked. His foot connected and the Reaper was tossed backward. Cutter turned and made a dive under the bridge and was gone.

  Phaeton nodded at Tim. “What’s with the strange hair?”

  “The Reaper gets a hold of you. One of those tentacles goes into an orifice—any entrance will do—you’re dead.”

  Phaeton tilted his head toward the narrow lane. “Is this passage always here? Not Wine Office Court, but . . . the rabbit hole, or whatever you call it.”

  “You can call them whatever you want. Everyone else does. Cutter calls them loos.” Tim continued, “Most insertion sites are shut down once the outsiders find out we’re coming through. We only keep track of a few in and out points as they constantly change.”

  “How many times have you been through?” America asked.

  Tim counted soundlessly on his fingers. “Not that many—a dozen maybe. Gaspar has gone through more than anyone except for Ping. But then Ping really isn’t . . . human.” Tim squinted at the rest of the crew in the carriage. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this . . .”

  Phaeton and America leaned across the aisle, as did Valentine and Ruby. “Gaspar is sick from it.”

  Phaeton straightened. “Sick how?”

  Tim lifted and dropped his shoulders. “Nobody knows—too many trips, possibly. He doesn’t talk about it much.” Their young instructor dipped his head to see d
own Fleet Street. “I think I have a sighting. Two more Reapers.”

  Phaeton flipped his goggles down and they all prepared to exit.

  Tim reached for the door latch. “One more thing—their time frame is different from ours—by a century. So if anyone asks—just say you’re going to a costume party.”

  America dragged a plump bottom lip under pearly white teeth. Tim smiled at her. “The safer kind of insertion is one where we let them show us the way in. We follow the dregs across, stealth-like, using this.” Tim dug around his satchel, and retrieved a length of metal pipe.

  America blinked at the object. “You used that this afternoon, to eliminate the Reaper on the roof of the carriage,.”

  “My objet éstrange.” The round-cheeked youth toggled his brows with a grin. Tim Noggy had an infectious smile all right, but there was also something else about him. A lost boy—out of place and time.

  He held up the tubular device. “I ripped this out of the Praed Street Reaper station. I’ve no idea how it works. It seems to be able to form links with the Outremer as well as hold the way open—long enough to get us through.” Tim grimaced. “I hope.”

  Chapter Twelve

  AMERICA DIDN’T FEEL ANY DIFFERENT. And she certainly didn’t see anything different. In fact, as she looked around she felt a little silly. Even the oval sign that hung above the pub was the same. She wrinkled her brow and stepped closer. Strange, the lettering was muddled. “Ezzich errsitch dlow aye.” She whispered, sounding out the foreign words.

  “Hold on.” She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved the small hand mirror. Angling it up at the overhead sign, she smiled. Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.

  As she lowered the looking glass she caught sight of a man on its surface, waving. She whirled in a circle. “Phaeton?”

  “Come have a look!” Phaeton was standing out on Fleet Street. America picked up her skirts and hurried down the passageway. He opened his arms and she leaped into his embrace. Holding her tight, he soothed her fears. At the same time he excited her senses, by just being . . . him.